


Filling the Hollow

by loonyloopyluna (orphan_account)



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Post-Canon, probably going to have some angst, romantic and/or otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/loonyloopyluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As one chapter in Lucy's life ends, another begins. But there are some things that can't be left behind or forgotten, and, truthfully, she isn't sure if she wants them to be.</p><p>Picks up directly after the end of THB, so, you know, spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After my unexpected announcement, the mood in the kitchen was considerably dulled. George faked cheerfulness as he doled out slices of his much-anticipated cake, but we largely ate in silence, and after he wolfed down his piece, he retreated to the library. Holly neatly stacked her plate on the counter with the rest of the dishes and lingered at the sink.

I waved her off, smiling hesitantly. “Don’t worry about the cleanup. I’ll get to it. You can go home, if you’d like.”

She looked between me and Lockwood, who seemed absorbed in making notes on the Thinking Cloth, and smiled back. “I think I will. Thanks, Lucy.” She crossed the room and paused in the doorway, looking back. “Goodbye.”

Lockwood looked up suddenly, as if he’d been waiting for the others to leave before confronting me. He asked quietly, “So, what does this mean, Luce?”

I frowned. “It means I’m leaving, Lockwood. I… quit. Effective immediately.”

He set down his pen and stared at me, dark eyes boring into mine. “What are you going to do?”

“Pardon?”

“There’s not much out there for a person of our age, not unless you want to join another agency. Not to mention, you’ll need to find a place to stay.”

He made good points, but I was confident that my decision, while hasty, was the right one.

“Maybe I’ll go back home,” I ventured.

He snorted. “Lucy, you were miserable the last time you went home, and that was only for a few days. Do you really think you could stomach living there again?”

“Or maybe I’ll find something else in London,” I shot back defensively. “Look, I’ll figure something out. Don’t try to change my mind, Lockwood; it’s already made up. I have to leave.”

“Right. To keep _us_ safe. When you lose control of your Talent.”

I rolled my eyes and made to shove off from the table. “If you’re just going to--”

Lockwood placed his hand on my arm, and I stilled. “Look, Lucy, I’m sorry if I upset you. I just...”

Remarkably, he seemed to have lost some of his composure, and he paused to take a steadying breath. “I just want to make sure that you’ll be okay. I wouldn’t want you to go off without a plan, only to find out from Flo Bones that you’ve been trawling the banks of the Thames with the rest of them.”

I settled back into my chair. He didn’t remove his hand. “At least stay until you have something settled,” he said, and that feeling gripped my chest again--hot and tight, pleasant and painful all at once.

“Of course,” I replied.

He squeezed my arm and shot me a dazzling grin. “Great.” Then, he stood up and strode smoothly out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts, a sink full of dirty dishes, and a half-eaten piece of cake.

* * *

When I trudged back up to my room, the last few dim rays of natural light cast long shadows across the room, doing more to obscure than illuminate. The skull grumbled from his place as doorstop as I flicked on the light switch.

“ _You could warn me first!_ ”

“Oh, grow up,” I griped, throwing myself on the bed.

The ghost’s face peered out at me through the glass, eyes comically bulging from their sockets. “ _Ooh, you’re certainly feeling melodramatic. What did I miss? It’s Holly, isn’t it? Did you take my advice?_ ”

“Stuff it, skull. I’m not in the mood.”

“ _Well, excuse me for trying to engage with you. You know, I thought we were almost friends. We really--_ ”

I shoved my head under the pillow to block him out, but I could still hear the muffled sound of him chattering away at me. “Fine!” I lobbed the pillow at the jar. “You want to know what happened?"

The ghost’s mouth snapped shut, and it stared at me, unblinking, waiting.

“I--I’m leaving Lockwood and Co.”

He gaped at me, mouth flapping wordlessly, tongue doing all sorts of grotesque things. Finally, he managed an “ _Oh,_ ” and the light faded from the jar. Good. I came up to the attic to be alone, anyway.

And Lockwood was right. I couldn’t just walk out of Portland Row and expect to be swept up by some agency or another. I thought back to all the places I’d applied when I first came to London, a year and a half beforehand. True, they had turned me away then, but I had a slew of prominent cases gracing my resume now, and references aplenty. Hell, I might even be able to persuade one from…

_Fittes_. I didn’t see how it’d slipped my mind before. I knew Penelope Fittes personally, even if we’d hardly spoken more than twice, but that was a start. Kipps had also offered me a spot on his team, should I ever want it, and I assumed his recent promotion hadn’t changed that.

I dug around on my chair for a moment, unearthing a notebook and scribbling a quick note to remind myself to call at Fittes in the morning. Then, I turned to the bed and pulled my suitcase out from underneath. Sure, I’d be staying on for a bit longer, but any nonessentials would take too much time to gather up later, when prolonging the inevitable goodbyes would just be more painful.

Time to start packing.

* * *

The next morning, I came down into the kitchen to find George puttering around, making breakfast. Astoundingly, he was even dressed.

“Morning, Luce,” he said upon catching sight of me. “Coffee?”

“Please,” I replied, snagging a piece of toast and sitting at the table. A pile of newspapers and manila folders took up the space of two people, and I could see George’s spidery scrawl peppering the tablecloth around it. “What’s all this?”

“Hmm?” George plunked down behind the stack, offering me a mug of coffee and cradling his own. “Oh. This. Well, I don’t know what you were thinking of doing next, but I just thought, you know, if you wanted to stay in London, you’d need a place to live. I’ve just been looking at some of the options you’d have available, since not many landlords are willing to rent a flat out to a kid.” He gestured at the newspapers. “Not for lack of trying, but I couldn’t find anything.”

“George…” I was touched. For all that we argued, he could be surprisingly considerate. Or perhaps all of that bickering had taught him one thing: Lucy was stubborn. When I made up my mind, I wasn’t easily swayed, so it was best to just go along.

“Right. Um.” He cleared his throat, slurped his coffee, and fished a few papers out of the mess, shoving the rest to the floor. “I did find a few things, though. First, you could stay on with us, provided Lockwood’s okay with--”

“No.”

“All right.” He blinked owlishly behind smudged lenses but made no comment. “Obviously, you could also find someone else willing to let you move in with them--a friend or something. I’m sure Holly would be more than happy to take you in, but judging from experience, I’d say the two of you sharing even closer quarters would be a bad idea.”

“A terrible idea,” I agreed.

He hummed and shook a page free from the sheaf in his hand. “Right. Well, believe it or not, you're not the only one who's moved on from their family to work for an agency. Turns out it's quite a common thing. And there's accommodations, of course. Sometimes agencies set up a dormitory of sorts, to house agents whose families aren't close by, or who simply want to be on hand. There's some independent boarding houses, too.”

I frowned. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he continued. “There’s another option, too, although it’s sort of odd. There’s a new...ish program that lets the elderly volunteer to take in agents; it’s a sort of trade. They expect you’ll keep watch for Visitors, pay your share of the rent, stay out of their way, but they don’t have to live on their own.”

I suddenly pictured a dimly-lit parlor, with musty, old furniture. I was on an overstuffed floral couch, sitting stiffly across from a stern old woman in a rocking chair, a blanket across her knees, gnarled hands gripping the wooden armrests. We stared uneasily at each other. Her rheumy eyes, behind thick bifocals, narrowed as I woodenly stood up, strapped my rapier to my belt, and left for work in silence.

I shuddered, and snapped back to the present. “Not a lot to go with,” I remarked.

“I know. But seeing as you’re the youngest of all of us--”

“Barely,” I interjected.

“Still the youngest,” he retorted. “Sorry, Luce. It’s something, anyway.”

“I know. Thanks, George,” I said sincerely. “I appreciate the thought.”

He stood up and patted my shoulder. “No problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some research to do.”

George left, and I busied myself with preparing an actual breakfast. From the hallway, I heard, “Oh, morning, Lockwood. Just popping out now.”

Lockwood appeared in the doorway. He hesitated a moment, then nodded curtly. “Good morning, Lucy.” He breezed past me and thudded down the stairs into the basement.

He had a right to be upset with me, of course. It’s not like it’s the first time he’d been cold with me. I could deal with it. And even if he never warmed up again, so what? I’d be leaving soon, anyway. Let him be mad at me.

Whatever.

* * *

Later that morning, dressed in my neatest clothes, I stood in front of the Fittes building. I knew it was pointless to stand there staring, and I was probably drawing attention to myself, but I couldn’t seem to work up the nerve to go in. I’d turned down Kipps’ offer enough times, and now here I was, about to waltz in like it was still on the table. I must’ve been standing there for at least five minutes, before I finally swallowed my pride and pushed open the doors.

The foyer was cavernous, with high, vaulted ceilings and dark, polished marble floors. Despite the high ceilings, all of the furniture was low to the ground; short couches behind squat tables littered with brochures and magazines. Across the middle of the room stretched a low counter, behind which sat a few young agents. Most of them were occupied; one was squabbling with a middle-aged man, another was flipping through a file cabinet.

I approached an empty spot at the counter, and a girl of about nine smiled up at me. “Good morning. Welcome to Fittes Agency. How may I help you?”

“Er,” I began uncertainly. “I’m here to see--”

The double doors at the end of the foyer swung open rather theatrically, and the man himself strolled out. “Lucy Carlyle,” Kipps announced, an amused smirk playing about his features. He approached the counter, standing behind the receptionist I’d been talking to, and crossed his arms. “What brings you here?”

“I came to see you, actually.” I winced internally, waiting for him to crow triumphantly or make some other self-satisfied remark, but he just shrugged and motioned for me to follow him back through the doors.

We went through the extravagant hallways and up a flight of stairs in silence. I passed rows of empty desks and tables scattered with relics and newspapers and almost missed Kipps turning into a narrow doorway. Upon entering, I found a small office, largely occupied by a desk, with a chair on either side. Kipps sat in one, reclining back and resting his feet on the desk, and gestured for me to take the other.

I complied, and gestured at the plaque on his desk, which read “Quill Kipps, Division Leader”.

“Congratulations, I suppose.”

He grinned smugly, proud as a peacock. “Mm. Yes, I do think I deserved it.” He crossed his hands lazily behind his head. “Now. What brings the _inestimable_ Lockwood and Co. to need our help again, and why can’t it wait until your boss meets with mine next week?”

I pasted on a polite smile. “Actually, I’m here for more personal matters.”

Kipps raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

I cleared my throat and smoothed down my skirt, surreptitiously wiping the sweat off my palms. “I… was wondering if that job offer was still standing.”

Both eyebrows were raised, now. He peered at me for a moment, then nodded, before getting up and shutting the door. He returned to the chair and sat properly, hands folded on the desk. “So, I’ve finally gotten through to you, eh? I figured it was only a matter of time before you saw where the greener pastures are and moved on.”

It took a considerable amount of effort not to reach across and slap the pompous grin off his face. “I have my own reasons for leaving,” I said evasively.

“Oh, of course, whatever you say.” He winked at me, then continued. “Now, normally, I’d have to check with my supervisors before taking you on, but this”--he tapped the plaque--”means I am my supervisor now. So, I don’t have to check with anyone before saying this. You’re hired.”

I blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Well, that was easy. Certainly, it was much different from my last interview at Fittes. I was taken aback by Kipps’ cavalier manner, though.

“Of course, there’s a bit more to it,” he went on. “There’s the specifics to get into. I don’t suppose you’d want to lead your own team?”

An idea occurred to me, and, absurd as it was, I decided to voice it. “Well, actually, I was wondering if I might be allowed to explore my Talent. I don’t care where you put me, really.” I explained the connections I’d made with Visitors, taking special care to omit the skull in the jar and the mishap with Robert Cooke, instead particularly emphasizing my encounter with the ghost at Bermuda Court.

“It’s a bit unorthodox, I know,” I concluded. “But I think it might be a step to figuring out the Problem. At the very least, it’s a new way of tackling it that might be worth exploring.”

Kipps’ face was inscrutable. He tapped a finger to his chin in thought, then spoke. “It’s unheard of, to be sure. I’ll think about it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got other things to do. I’ll put you in for an appointment tomorrow--say, around noon? Have you fill out some paperwork, make it official.”

We stood and shook hands. He walked me to the door and opened it with a flourish. “Welcome to Fittes Agency, Miss Carlyle.”

I thanked him and found my own way back to the exit, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad summary is bad. Sorry. 
> 
> I finally read The Hollow Boy. It was good, but it left a lot of loose ends, which left me a little uneasy since my friend, who got me into the books, told me it's a trilogy, and that would mean it's the last one. This is my attempt at tying up some of those ends. Character tags will most likely update as the story does.
> 
> This is gonna be a long one, folks.
> 
> (Hopefully.)


	2. Chapter 2

I’d politely declined an offer to board in the dormitory with the other Fittes agents; it would be insufferable enough to have to _work_ with the pretentious lot of them every day. I’d applied at a few independent boarding houses, but they all inevitably asked why I was leaving my previous residence, and my response of “Professional differences” was usually met with strained smiles and occasionally, nervous glances, but always a polite yet firm rejection.

Apparently, I was too much of a loose cannon.

Holly offered to put in a good word for me with her landlord; I resolved to use it as a last resort, if necessary, but I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. And so, it was with mild trepidation that I inquired into the last place George had found. A quick visit to Twin Pines Housing Agency (which sounded a bit like the name of a retirement home, so I suppose it was fitting) to turn in yet another application left me feeling more optimistic, however. The man behind the counter received it with barely concealed glee; apparently, not many young people had responded. He assured me they’d be in touch within the week.

It was a bit awkward, though, when they did get in touch; the only contact information I had was that of Lockwood and Co, so I was sulking in the library, trying to finish a particularly boring paperback, when Holly entered with a sheepish, “Phone for you, Lucy.” She gave me a knowing look, and I hurried downstairs to pick up the connection from the phone at my desk.

They’d found someone. I thanked the man on the phone, who gave me an address and said cheerfully, “Your new roommate is ready for you at any time.”

A bit cheesy, perhaps. I thanked him again and asked if he could please inform her I’d most likely be by sometime tomorrow before hanging up.

George must’ve known something was up, because at dinner he asked, with an overly casual tone, “So, Lucy, any news?”

I played with my fork. “Er, yeah, actually. I think I may have found a place. I’m stopping by tomorrow.”

I glanced up to gauge everyone’s reactions. Holly smiled triumphantly down at her plate. I wondered whether it was because she was happy to be rid of me or happy for me, before shaking myself off of that train of thought. George was cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt, taking much longer than usual and studiously avoiding my gaze. Lockwood had simply frozen in place for a few seconds, before continuing to eat quietly. Nobody seemed to know what to say. I didn’t, either.

* * *

The next morning, I slipped out of the house before I saw anyone else. I’d scribbled the apartment address on a scrap of paper, tucked inside my coat pocket, but it was much too early to stop by yet. And I’d yet to actually start at Fittes; agency policy was to allow a two-week waiting period after hiring “to enable agent(s) to finish any pre-existing cases and/or allow time for the agent’s parent(s) and/or guardian(s) to withdraw the agent from the dangers of the agency”, but I was pretty sure it was because they didn’t want me showing up for work in my ratty winter coat, skirt, and leggings, and it took two weeks for the uniforms to be properly fitted and finished.

I wandered around town for a bit; it was chilly, but not unreasonably so. I stopped in a cafe for breakfast and lingered, passing the time. Finally, around 10:30, I made my way towards the address in my pocket.

It wasn’t too far away from the Fittes building, thankfully. I wouldn’t be too keen on having to take a cab into work every day. It was a pleasant enough townhouse, divided up by floor into three different apartments. The address I’d been given said Apartment #1, which meant the ground floor. As I knocked on the door, I idly wondered if that meant we’d get the yard. Not that there was much of it; a small patch of grass was nestled between the iron fence and the brick steps. Still, maybe there would be room for a flower bush or two.

The door swung open soundlessly. I was relieved to see that the woman holding it looked nothing like what I’d feared. She was dressed like the quintessential grandmother in a wool skirt, white blouse, and baby blue cardigan. Her short, thinning hair was white and wispy, and her skin, absurdly, reminded me of a paper bag--brown, dry, and wrinkled.

I suddenly realized how ridiculous this whole thing was. I didn't even know this woman's name, or anything about her. But before I could do anything, she smiled at me and said, “You must be Lucy. It's nice to meet you, dear. I'm Alice Howell. Come in, come in. I'll put the kettle on.”

So Mrs. Howell and I had tea. She was very interested in what it was like being an agent, but I learned a few things about her as well. She had a son, no grandchildren, and a cat--

“Oh!” I exclaimed as a chunk of shag carpet seemed to detach itself from the floor and jumped into my lap.

“Down, Cece,” she commanded, but the cat eyed her balefully and kneaded my leg with its paws.

It stretched languidly and laid down. “Sorry, that’s just Cecil,” she apologized. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh dear, you’re not allergic, are you?”

I scratched the cat behind his ears. “I don’t think so,” I reassured her. “But anyway…” I lifted the cat gently from my lap and set him on the floor. “I should be getting back. Erm, so what’s the procedure here? Do I sign on with your landlord or…?”

Mrs. Howell waved her hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that right now. As soon as you’re settled in we can just pop up to give Mr. Mathis a visit; he’s only up on the top floor.”

“Right. When would it be convenient for me to move in?”

We both stood up and were slowly making our way back to the door. “Whenever works best for you, dear,” she said.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would be perfect,” she beamed.

“All right.” I put my hand on the doorknob, still feeling rather awkward about this whole thing. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Howell.”

“Alice,” she corrected. “And it was wonderful to meet you, too, Lucy.”

I opened the door and slipped through it, and she stood in the doorway, waving me off till I was past the front door. Once I was out in the street, I took a deep breath and straightened my coat. I considered taking a taxi back to Portland Row, but it wasn’t that far. I’d walk; I needed some time to process things. After all, there was nothing keeping me there anymore. It was high time I left.

* * *

Lockwood came up to my room just before dinner, while I was packing the last of my things. My clothes for tomorrow were laid out on the chair, and I’d put a pile of fresh sheets on the nightstand to remind me to change the bed in the morning. I was sitting on top of the bed, staring at the two suitcases lined up neatly on the wall next to the door. When he saw me, his eyes followed mine.

“I take it everything went well?” he asked, sitting next to me.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I was going to tell everyone at dinner.”

“So, you're really leaving,” he said, not so much a question as a statement. Flat. Resigned. Solemn.

“I--I’m sorry, Lockwood,” I said, searching his face desperately. I knew he would never say it outright, but he was upset. And I didn't know if it was with me or with himself.

He met my gaze for a moment; then, it slipped down to my chest. Or, the necklace, I realized.

“Oh.” It suddenly dawned on me. “The necklace. That's where you got it from. It was--”

“Jessica’s, yeah,” he responded.

“Here,” I said, moving my hands back to unclasp the chain. He lifted a hand to stop mine, but I had already removed the necklace and held it out to him. “You should probably have this back, then.”

“No. Keep it,” he insisted.

I held my hand out doggedly. “It's different now that I'm leaving. I'd feel bad. When I saw you all the time, when I lived here, it felt like I was borrowing it. Like I could give it back at any time. If I walk away wearing it, it's like I'm taking it from you.”

Lockwood took the necklace from me and pulled my other hand from my lap, pooling the chain in my palm and folding my fingers over it. He held my hand between both of his.

“I want you to keep it,” he said. “It was a gift. Yes, it meant something to me because it was my sister's, but that’s not it. It's--” He sighed. “Some of it's the memories with it, but you know what? It looks good on you, Luce. It’s yours.”

He looked down at his hands, still clasping one of mine, and a piece of hair fell across his eyes. Before I could think about it, my free hand floated up to brush it back across his forehead. He smiled at me, soft but still bright.

He glanced back over at my suitcases, still standing at attention for my departure. “I don't suppose I could convince you to stay a little longer? Just until Christmas, even?”

I would love to, of course. But as I looked at him even now, I saw the hollowed-out face of the Fetch, and its words echoed in my mind.

_I show you the future. This is your doing_.

No, I had to leave, for everyone's safety. His, most of all. And the longer I put off leaving, the harder it would be.

“Lockwood,” I sighed.

“Lucy,” he said back, teasingly, but his eyes were serious.

“I'm sorry. I…” I didn't know what I was apologizing for. For quitting the agency, for lying about the ghost, for leaving?

I couldn't quite muster up the words to convey all of that. But he seemed to understand. He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles. “I know.”

_Did he, though?_

“I’m sorry, too.”

What did he have to be sorry for? I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Besides, Flo’s probably right. It’s time for you to move on to the next agent,” I joked.

“That’s not… Is that really what you think?” he asked. “Flo was just trying to get under your skin. It’s true that this agency has a turnover rate, but my goal was always to find the perfect fit with the rest of the team. I thought...well, I hoped you would be the end of that.”

I was silent. “Lucy,” he said. “Tell me that’s not why you’re leaving. Because you think we’ve gotten bored with you? It’s nothing I’ve done that’s driving you away, is it?”

“No!” I blurted out. _This is your doing_. But it wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be. “You and George are my family. I could never think you got tired of me. It’s not Holly, or these new cases, or anyone at Fittes. This is my choice, and I wish I didn’t have to make it, but I can’t keep putting you in danger.”

“You know, Luce, danger comes with the job.”

“I know.” _I show you the future._ I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish the ghost from my mind. Maybe that would always be Lockwood’s fate--impaled on his own sword, in one of his impulsive acts of bravado. Maybe I’d rest easier if I was around to watch his back...

George’s voice floated up the stairs. “Dinner!”

I shook myself back to the present. “What’s done is done,” I said. “It’s no use sitting here and second-guessing things.”

Lockwood sighed. “You’re right, of course.” He stood up, hauling me up with him before releasing my hand. He gestured to the stairs. “Ready for your last meal, Ms. Carlyle?”

I shuddered, grinning. “I hope not.”

* * *

All too soon, it was morning. I'd called for a cab and set my suitcases by the front door. The remaining members of Lockwood and Co. gathered to bid me farewell.

Holly stepped forward first, her arms held open slightly as if to come in for a hug, but at the last second, she thought better of it and extended her hand. We shook. “It’ll certainly be different around here without you, Lucy,” she said.

“Thanks?” I replied, unsure whether I should take that as a compliment. And, you know, Holly might’ve been starting to grow on me after all. I thought that we could’ve been friends if I was sticking around.

Then George. He stuck out his hand, too, and I shook it, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Never change, George. I’ll miss you.”

He nudged his glasses up on his nose and grinned. “Same to you, Luce.”

When I got to Lockwood, I paused for a fraction of a moment; then I shook his hand, too. He nodded politely.

“It’s been an honor working with you, Anthony Lockwood,” I said warmly.

“And you, Lucy Carlyle,” he replied, with his megawatt grin.

Holly crossed to the door, opened it, and peeked out. “Car’s here,” she told me.

I took a deep breath and picked up my suitcases. Lockwood, George, and Holly stood in the doorway and watched as I piled my luggage into the trunk of the car, got in, and gave the driver my new address. They stayed there, waving me off, and I waved back, until the car turned the corner off of Portland Row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....  
> I found out that THB isn't the last book. Yay. Thank God.  
> But I was also SUPER embarrased. My biggest worry after that was that I would basically just be predicting some stuff from the upcoming book and this would just end up watered-down version of the actual book once it comes out, but thankfully, from the synopsis I found, it seems like I'm already (maybe) going in a different enough direction that this is just going to end up as an AU. So I shall continue for now.  
> I'll try to update every Monday. I need some structure in my life.


	3. Chapter 3

My first day at Fittes came quickly.

I’d stopped by the previous day to pick up my uniform, and Alice whistled appreciatively when she saw me wearing it. “You look very sharp,” she told me as I prepared to leave.

I plucked uncomfortably at the stiff sleeve of my new jacket. “It’s so fancy,” I complained. “I might as well be working in a gown.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” she said cheerfully. “And besides, it’ll break in. Now, get going. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

I walked to work, willing myself not to drag my feet. Alice was right--I had to make a good first impression on my fellow agents, even if I’d already met some of them.

I walked into the lobby and found that the double doors were propped open. Unsure of what else to do, I managed to find my way through the labyrinth of hallways to Kipps’ office. Unlike the last few times I’d been there, nobody spared me a second glance. The perks of having a uniform, I suppose; I blended in.

Kipps was settling down into his chair with a steaming mug of coffee when I knocked on his door. He rubbed his eyes blearily. “Ah, Lucy,” he said. “Good, you’re here.”

“Er, yeah,” I responded. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure where to go…”

“No problem. I’ve assigned you to a team.” He took a gulp of coffee and stood up, walking to the doorway. In the room beyond, agents were milling around and sitting at desks and poring over papers. He rapped on his doorframe, and everyone looked up

“I need to see some of you in my office. Vernon, Godwins,” he called. He snapped his fingers as he visibly struggled to remember something. He pointed at one of the agents at a desk. “You. What’s your--Lang! That’ll be all.”

Four agents filtered out of the crowd and filed into Kipps’ office; he shut the door behind the last one. It was a tight squeeze, and the five of us crowded together along the wall. No one took the other chair.

From the corner, I glanced sideways along the line of agents. My new team, I realized. I recognized Bobby Vernon, short and ratlike, and Kat Godwin, looking, as usual, like she was being force-fed a lemon. Another girl stood next to Kat; while she looked younger and her hair was longer and reddish, they shared the same sharp profile. Sisters, I wondered? Next to the door stood a heavyset boy with brown hair that just brushed his jaw and hid almost comically protuberant ears.

Kipps stood behind his desk and stared appraisingly at the group of us. The silence grew longer and I shuffled my feet. Kat glared at me over Bobby’s head. This was shaping up to be a _great_ idea, I could tell.

Then Kipps spoke. “So, as you all are no doubt aware, my recent promotion means that I’ve retired from field work. As such, what remains of my team,” here, he nodded towards Kat and Bobby, “have been... adrift. It’s time to fix that.

“Kat, you’re team leader,” he announced, and while her expression was unchanged, her eyes shone with pride.

“Bobby,” he continued. “You’re the brains. Carlyle, you’re the ears. Godwin Number Two, you’re the eyes.” He sat down and nodded at us.

The boy at the end raised his hand timidly. “Excuse me, sir? What’s my job?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, you--it is Lang, isn’t it?--you are the muscle of this little team. You see, Miss Carlyle has proposed a new method of dealing with Visitors, and it’s risky. So you’re there to have that extra rapier ready when things go awry. Think of yourself as a… bodyguard.”

I started. “Oh! So I’m--”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “We’ll see how it goes. You’ll keep me updated, of course, and I reserve the right to restrain you at any time, et cetera, et cetera.”

Kat lifted an eyebrow. “What are we doing?”

Kipps remained silent and looked at me expectantly, so I turned to my new team and explained, “I can… communicate with Visitors. Not just Type Threes--Ones and Twos. I think that most of these ghosts are coming back with a purpose, and they’re trying to tell us so they can move on.”

My team, understandably, looked skeptical. “Um, like, there was this one case I had recently,” I continued. “It was just me, and a Type One, and I heard this sound, like someone picking at the fabric of a chair. And it appeared in a chair, so as soon as it left, I checked and there was a pile of money hidden in the armrest, and I gave it to the family, like I think it wanted. And it hasn’t come back.”

Bobby laughed. “That’s it?”

I felt defensive. “It’s happened more than once. In another case, the Visitor was pointing at the place where it had hidden a confession, and we found that.”

The other Godwin girl looked intrigued. “And that got rid of the ghost?” she asked.

“Well, no…” I admitted. “Lockwood didn’t realize it was pointing; he thought it was attacking me, and he destroyed the Source. I only found the letter afterward.”

“It’s not a lot to go on, I know,” Kipps spoke up. “Think of the attention this could get us, though. Non-violent ghost hunting. If anything, it saves our resources for more dangerous Visitors.”

Kat didn’t look convinced. She sneered at me. “So we’re just...taking her word on this? Without any concrete evidence. Really, Quill?”

I longed to tell them about the skull and the conversations I’d had with him. I _could_ talk to ghosts. But George might get in trouble for stealing it, and it would end up back in the Fittes vaults, deep underground and of no use to anyone.

“We’ve worked together on cases before,” I snarled at her. “Would it really hurt to trust me?”

Kipps raised his hands placatingly. “Obviously you have some work to do before you’re a real team,” he said. “You’re too green to start any cases right now. Figure that out for yourselves; I have things to do.”

The boy near the door gratefully pulled it open and surged out of the office. The rest of us followed, but when I got to the door, Kat turned around in front of me, blocking my way forward.

She leaned over and flicked a piece of cat hair off my shoulder. “I'm in charge, _Julie,_ ” she reminded me. “Watch your tone.” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked off.

* * *

The Fittes practice rooms were in the basement, as well, but they were much nicer than I was used to. The stairs ended in a windowless room with hardwood floors and rows of doors along the left and right. On the far side, the room tapered out into a hallway, lined with more doors.

“Right,” Kat said briskly, slipping easily into her role as leader. “Introductions. Kat Godwin, Izzy Godwin, Bobby Vernon, Oliver Lang, Lucy Carlyle.” She pointed to each of us as she said our names. “We’ll meet in Rapier Room Seven.”

She marched off to a door marked “Girls’ Locker Room”. I jogged after her. Even the locker room was ridiculously posh; the floor was white marble, the lockers were polished wood, and the showers were divided by frosted glass partitions.

I didn’t have any clothes to change into, so I just shrugged off my jacket and hung it in an empty locker. Izzy glanced over at me from the mirror, where she was pulling her hair into a braid. “You can leave that,” she said, nodding at my rapier.

“Don’t we need them?” I asked.

“There’s swords in the training room,” she said, like it should’ve been obvious. She stuffed her uniform in her own locker and pushed past me back to the lobby. I hung my rapier with my jacket and followed suit.

Room Seven wasn’t as big as I was expecting; it looked like it was made to hold two people, maybe three. A pair of low wooden benches rested against the back wall, and I joined the rest of my team sitting on them. Kat entered a minute later and glanced at me, still in my uniform, with a barely-concealed smirk, then addressed us as a whole.

“Practice time. We need to get used to working together, and what better way to do that than learning each other’s moves firsthand? We’ll be going one-on-one, Round Robin style. Winner gets nothing. This is about establishing a team dynamic.”

She grinned and turned to a rack of fencing foils by the door. She grabbed one for herself and tossed the other to me. “Carlyle, you’re up first.”

* * *

We didn’t break until lunch. I staggered back to the locker room to grab my jacket, and then up to the main floor. There was a really good sandwich shop down the street that I had been looking forward to.

In the lobby, I ran into Holly, of all people, and that stopped me in my tracks. She looked pristine, as usual, whereas I was probably a flushed, sweaty mess.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Lucy!” she beamed. “I was just stopping by to pick up some things Ms. Fittes wanted us to look over. How are you?”

“Er, I’m good, I guess. How are things with you?”

“Good, good,” she said. “The boys are dragging their heels a bit, but we’ve gotten some new cases and--oh! Did you hear, I don’t know, since it might affect you--we’re expanding! Lockwood established a partnership with Ms. Fittes, where we’re essentially loaning some of your agents for bigger cases. There’s only so much space at the agency, after all.”

I don’t know why, but the way she called George and Lockwood “the boys” bothered me, as if they were a pair of misbehaving but loveable toddlers. It made me feel nostalgic for the days before I’d ever met Holly Munro; a few months ago, I hadn't even known she existed, and now here she was, telling me about _my_ friends. Because I wasn't there anymore. It was like we’d traded places; I was the outsider, now.

No. I couldn't think like that; it would only make it harder to move on. Except, what had Holly said? Our agencies had a partnership now. Maybe I never would be truly rid of them. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. I felt an odd lump rising in my throat and I suddenly realized I was clenching my jaw.

“Oh,” I managed to say. “That’s nice.”

“Isn’t it?”

I nodded awkwardly, and she just stood there, smiling vacantly at me. I cleared my throat. “Well, um, I was about to go out and get lunch, so…”

“Oh! No, thank you, I’ve already eaten. But you have a good time!” she said.

I refrained from mentioning that I hadn’t been inviting her and slipped past her out the door.

* * *

The afternoon wasn’t much better than the morning. Kat continued to push us, but instead of fencing, she had us act out a ridiculous roleplay. We each had to take turns being the “Visitor” and the rest of the team would have to work to dispatch us.

It was more than a little humiliating at times, but we managed to hold out until Kat said, not unkindly, “Nice work, everyone.”

A compliment? Perhaps she might actually be tolerating me now that she was in charge. It might’ve been ambiguously given, but I’d take it.

I arrived home just before the ghost lamps flickered on to counteract the hours-long twilight brought on by winter. Alice was already home, reading the newspaper in her reclining armchair.

Upon hearing me come in, she lifted a hand in greeting, not looking up. “I was planning on heating up some soup, if you wanted some,” she said. She made no move to stand up and flicked the paper to the next section.

“That’s all right, I’ll get it,” I said, as I knew she had expected me to. In the few days I’d lived with her, we’d already fallen into something of a routine.

There wasn’t much counter space in the kitchen, and much of it was taken up, to my surprise, by an elegant vase full of flowers. I identified stalks of orange lilies and little pink flowers with square petals and--was that mistletoe?

“What’s with the flowers?” I called.

I heard a creak as she stood up, then Alice shuffled into the kitchen. “They came for you, I think. A nice young man dropped them off a few minutes ago. I told him you’d be along shortly if he wanted to wait, but he said he was just the delivery boy.”

I dug around for a card and found a slip of paper, wrapped like a ribbon around the stalk of a thornless orange rose. I unfurled it.

_Good luck, and goodbye, Lucy Carlyle._

The words were typed out. Alice read it over my shoulder. “Well,” she said, “Either you have a stalker, or you have a secret admirer.”

I found it a little eerie, myself. Maybe they were from Lockwood, as a housewarming gift? Bit late for that, though.

Cecil hopped up on the counter and began sniffing the flowers in earnest. I lifted the vase from his reach and set them on the table. “They’re too pretty to be from a stalker,” I joked. “That would be like, a handful of grass inside a cat skull or something.”

Alice chuckled. “You have a strange imagination, dear.”

* * *

Later that night, I was in the shower when I thought I heard someone speaking to me through the door. I poked my head out from behind the shower curtain. “What?”

“Did you say something, Lucy?” Alice called.

“Did you?”

“No.”

Weird.

I decided to chalk it up to the stress of a long day.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning at work was more of the same; thankfully, I’d had the foresight to bring a change of clothes, so at least I was comfortable while I was sweating to death.

I really hoped we’d get a case soon.

My prayers were answered that afternoon. We came back upstairs to the agents’ area, and Kat found a file folder newly placed on her desk. She flipped it open and scanned the contents, before handing it off to Bobby, who tucked it under his arm.

“New case,” she said. “We’re getting almost too many to keep up with, so they need all hands on deck. Bobby, it looks pretty straightforward, but can you head to archives and see what there is?”

He grinned, settling back into the swing of working with Kat, and immediately trotted off. She turned to the rest of us and barked. “Not much else for us to do until he gets back with information. Back to work.”

My arms felt sorer than they ever had, but I followed the rest of my team downstairs with a spring in my step. I’d been getting restless without a case to work on, and now I had something to look forward to.

We shuffled into a circular practice arena, with rows of dummies hanging from the ceiling. The dummies at Fittes didn’t have names; they were blank, featureless white sacks sewn into the vague shape of a human.

Kat seemed happy to have a case, too. She slashed at a straw dummy with fierce precision, a tight grin on her face. She probably felt the same as I did, anxiously waiting for a case. There was  more pressure on her, though, to do well, and handle her team appropriately. We’re on the same side, I reminded myself. I wanted things to go well for her, because that would also be good for me. A small, petty part of me still wanted us to fail, though, and knock her down a peg or two. I tried to ignore that.

I’d taken the dummy farthest from the door and secretly named it. Darla’s head was almost off, making her body swing wildly and tear at the seam a little more whenever I grazed it with my rapier. I attempted a particularly complicated ward, making Darla swing from side to side, angling towards Oliver’s head.

He saw it coming and wordlessly shifted to the left, stumbling a bit as the tip of his rapier caught in the fabric of his own dummy. His mouth twitched and he avoided my gaze, staring straight in front of him with forced, intense concentration. I’d gathered he wasn’t much of a talker. Or a listener. He was good with a rapier, though, and I hoped he’d get over himself long enough to have our backs when we needed it.

On his other side, Izzy practiced the most basic wards with a rapier that was probably longer than it should’ve been for an agent of her height. In the past day, I’d determined that she and Kat  _ were _ sisters, and this seemed to be her first month on the job. She kept sneaking glances at her sister when she thought no one was looking, and followed her lead in everything. It was clear she thought Kat was an example of the perfect agent.

Me? Working at Fittes, under those who had so recently been my rivals, was an exercise in learning to hold my tongue. I wanted to seem cooperative. But at times it seemed like Kat and Bobby, especially, were purposefully pushing my buttons to get me to snap. I hoped it was nothing more than a hazing ritual, an initiation, and once they got used to me, everything would be easier.

Until then, I could take my frustration out on Darla.

* * *

 

Bobby was back within a few hours, looking bright-eyed and absolutely  _ thrilled _ from the exhilaration of paging through papers nonstop. I guess there’s a reason I’m not the one to do research.

The rest of us were still in the dark about the whole case, so the five of us found a few empty couches and sat down while he and Kat filled us in.

“Sounds pretty simple,” she began, glancing up from the file back in her grasp. “There’s, hmm… reports of chilly rooms, feelings of paranoia and despair, whispers that he can’t quite make out. No kids around to verify, though, so that’s the best we’ve got. The owner says it’s not really  _ bothering _ him, but recent events have made him a little jumpy, and he’d rather get rid of it, just in case. Probably a Lurker.”

“The residence is really old, but weirdly, there’s no record of any kind of death within the premises,” Bobby said. “Not even from old age. The previous owners either sold the house before they died, or made it to the hospital in time and kicked it there. The current owner, Ellis Osborne, bought it a few years back. He lives by himself; doesn’t even use the whole house, because it’s so big. The ghost’s been showing up in one of the rooms he does use, so my guess is it’s attached to a piece of furniture or a knick-knack or something. Not much else I can figure without being there to see for myself.”

Kat glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly four thirty. We should leave now, while it’s still light out.”

Izzy leaned her head on the back of the couch and whined, “Do we have to? I’m tired from all of that training. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

Kat stood and glared at her sister, her left fist on her hip. “Yes, we do have to. Tomorrow we’ll probably have a different case. C’mon, get up.” She nudged Izzy’s leg with her foot. The rest of us shuffled uncomfortably.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Izzy grumbled.

“Actually, I am,” Kat retorted. “Now, come on, or we’re leaving you behind.” She stalked past, cheeks flushed pink, muttering angrily under her breath. Bobby and Oliver followed, but I lingered, waiting for Izzy. Kat glanced over her shoulder. “That applies to you, too, Lucy!”

Izzy lifted her head and grudgingly got to her feet. “I’m coming,” she snapped at me, and scurried to catch up with everyone else.

It was a quick cab ride to our client’s house. Kat strode up to the front door, lifted the iron knocker, and let it fall once, twice. I stayed at the bottom of the porch, observing the house. It was a big, brick building, with iron-latticed windows and marble columns holding up the porch roof; Mr. Osborne was obviously a man of some wealth, I reflected. Then the front door opened.

The man at the door was probably in his early- to mid-twenties. He was wearing sweatpants and a crisp, white, button-down shirt, which was quite a sight. He nodded at us. “I’m guessing you’re the agents I hired? I’m Ellis. Come on in.” His accent sounded vaguely American.

Kat stepped into the house and, without turning around, beckoned for us to follow. I jogged up the steps, determined to get inside before anyone else and get the first look. Bobby was close on my heels. He tripped over the threshold, spilling the contents of his folder all over the floor. I turned around to see what the noise was, and my rapier swung out from my belt, hitting Kat in the leg. She swore under her breath and glared at me. Izzy edged past us, leaving a trail of sopping, muddy footprints across the papers and the floor, and gingerly toed her shoes off, waiting in her socks. Oliver tried to tiptoe around the mess, leaning against the wall to balance himself, while Bobby scrambled on his hands and knees to gather everything.

A crack team of agents, we were.

Mr. Osborne ignored the disaster and reached over to shut the door, before latching five different locks. He chuckled sheepishly. “Can’t be too careful, with all the ghosts around. Follow me; I’ll show you to the dining room.”

“Right,” I muttered under my breath, trailing a few steps behind him. “Because a door and some extra locks will stop a ghost.”

Behind me, I heard Kat hiss, “Put your shoes back on!”

“But they’re all wet,” Izzy whined. “I didn’t see the runnel and I stepped in it.”

Oliver, walking next to me, nudged me with his elbow and rolled his eyes. “Let’s just hope the ghost comes out quickly so we can all go home, huh?”

I snorted. So much for professionalism. This was a trainwreck already.

We arrived in the dining room, and Bobby spread his mess of papers on the table to reorganize them. Kat marched through the door; Izzy hid meekly behind her, still holding her shoes.

“This is where I’ve been feeling most of the problem,” Mr. Osborne said, making a sweeping hand gesture. “I tried to explain it as best I could earlier. I don’t see anything, but I can hear it, and I can feel that there’s  _ something _ here, but I don’t know what it is or where it’s coming from.”

Bobby looked up. “Is any of this furniture new?” he asked.

Mr. Osborne shrugged. “No. Everything’s pretty old, I think.”

“I mean, new to you,” Bobby clarified.

“Oh. Yeah. I just bought, well, pretty much everything in here a few months ago,” Mr. Osborne replied. “My friends and I stopped by a few estate sales and antique shops and got a bunch of stuff. I don’t remember where everything is from.”

That was of some help, but all it did was frustrate me. So Bobby was right--the Source was probably a piece of furniture, but everything in here probably had some connection to a dead person. I was surprised people were still even having estate sales, with the recent escalation of the Problem.

Kat echoed my thoughts. “That doesn’t do much to narrow it down for us.”

Mr. Osborne shrugged again. “Sorry. But that’s why you guys are here. If I could figure out what the problem was, I’d take it to the furnaces myself.

“Anyway,” he continued. “The sun’s going down soon. I’ll leave you to it. Try not to break anything that doesn’t need it.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Oliver pulled out a thin, iron chain and made a wide oval on the floor, and then we waited for the sun to go down and the ghost to come out.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my thermos and a pack of crackers; around the table, everyone else was doing the same. We ate and drank in silence, glancing every so often at the ever-dimming window. I got up and switched the light off, and the gloom of the room was suddenly apparent.

Bobby checked his thermometer. “Temperature’s dropped by three degrees,” he reported.

We moved behind the chains, each of us facing outward, our backs towards the center. I felt the creeping fear wash over me, and a sour taste filled my mouth.

“Down by another two degrees,” Bobby said after a few minutes.

“I think I see something,” Izzy said suddenly. She pointed ahead of her, at a hutch filled with fancy china plates. “It’s, uh, kinda hazy. It’s not really a shape; it’s just sort of blobby.”

“I don’t see anything,” Bobby said, turning around to look.

“No, she’s right,” Oliver said, pointing in front of  _ him _ , at a brass carriage clock on the mantel. “I wouldn’t say it’s blobby, though. It definitely looks like a person.”

I looked back and forth between the two of them, facing in opposite directions. “Maybe this isn’t as straightforward as we thought.”

Kat started to say something in response, but she froze with her mouth half-open. “Lucy,” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”

I cleared my mind and Listened. I dimly heard Bobby say something about another drop in the temperature, but then I Heard what Kat must’ve--a faint tapping sound, that grew stronger as I focused on it. I tried to pinpoint where it was coming from, but it didn’t seem to have a specific source; it seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once. Every time I thought I’d figured it out, it suddenly sounded as though it had always been coming from somewhere else.

Izzy swallowed hard. “So that’s...how many ghosts, now?” she asked.

“Make that at least four.” Bobby pointed to the window, where even I could see a faint, bluish shape hiding behind the curtains.

Kat groaned. “Alright, everyone, split up.”

* * *

 

In the end, the total ghost count was six. They were all pretty weak Type Ones, and I was afraid we’d missed some that weren’t strong enough for any of us to detect.

It was nearly dawn after we returned to the Fittes building with the various Sources. Kat gave us the next morning off, so we could get some sleep and she could write her report. I got home and opened the door on Alice puttering around in the kitchen, making breakfast.

“Lucy!” she greeted me. “I was worried when you didn’t come home last night.”

“There was a case,” I said, stifling a yawn. I shrugged my jacket off and flung it across the back of a kitchen chair. “I’m going to bed.”

“Oh, before you do…” Alice hurried off into the sitting room and returned holding another vase of flowers. “These came for you yesterday.” She set it next to the other vase.

The two were certainly an interesting contrast. This new vase was short and round, filled with sweet peas and round, red flowers and long, wild-looking bunches of lavender sticking out in every direction, as if they’d been added as an afterthought. This one had a proper card, situated front and center and held in place by a long plastic stick.

_ It was wonderful to see you again, _ it read, in what I recognized as Holly’s neat handwriting.  _ Here’s hoping we see more of each other in the future! With love, Lockwood & Co. _

“Somebody’s popular,” Alice teased.

I shook my head. I needed sleep before I could think about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	5. Chapter 5

Now that we were back in the game, I couldn’t catch a break. Every morning came with a new case, and every night was full of unexpected Visitors. Kat eventually had to stop giving us the mornings off, and even Christmas didn’t warrant a full break from things. Not that I had anything planned, of course, but it was the principle of the thing. I’d thought about visiting George and Lockwood and Holly, but I couldn’t get the time.

Holly was right; I was seeing more of her every week. It seemed that although we had stemmed the outbreak in Chelsea, the Problem was worsening virtually everywhere else. They were teaming up with DEPRAC and Fittes to try to find the Sources; once or twice I thought I saw George tripping through the halls, laden down with maps.

“I wish I could help,” I told Holly one day. We’d taken to meeting up for lunch whenever we ran into each other, to compare notes, but most of the time it was just her talking and me listening. I’d found that, with some distance between us, she could be rather pleasant.

“Oh, Lucy, of course you are!” she reassured me. “Inspector Barnes is too busy focusing on the big picture, but you’ve got all the gritty details, which are just as important. Now, I want to hear all about your latest case.”

I twisted my fingers in my lap. “It wasn’t much different from the last ones. We got called in for one ghost, and left with more than that. I feel bad for the lady, honestly. We must’ve left with half of her library.”

Holly hummed and twisted her glossy black hair into a bun. “It’s weird,” I continued. “I know that Sources are generally old, since they’re connected to dead people and all, but we haven’t encountered  _ any _ recent Visitors. Everything we’ve found is at least a hundred years old, or older. It’s like they’re all…”

“Antiques?” she supplemented.

“Yeah.” And quite a few of our clients had referred to the Sources as such, I realized, telling us to be careful and  _ please try to find a way to salvage it _ ; they were family heirlooms or priceless artifacts or great finds from the shop down the street.

“They’re weak enough that I doubt they would normally be a problem,” Holly said. “It’s obviously being triggered by something, and all these ghosts that have been dormant are coming out.”

That made sense, and it’s about what I had been thinking. “What about you?” I asked. “Any luck in nipping this thing in the bud?”

She laughed bitterly. “Hardly. After the whole Aickmere ordeal, Barnes is actually listening to George’s ideas, but we’ve been so bogged down with cases that he hardly has a chance to go over anything. And Lockwood’s pulling himself so thin; he keeps taking on new cases, even though we’ve hardly got the time, and he’s still trying to find your replacement, of course--er, but all the new agents are flocking to the bigger agencies. I’ve been helping out where I can, but we’re getting nowhere.”

Holly rested her cheek against her fist and sighed. “Do you ever wish you’d been born without a Talent?” she asked. She sounded distracted, as though she was thinking about something else and it had just slipped out without her noticing, but it still made me think.

“I’ve… never thought about it before,” I admitted. “But I don’t think so. I’d rather be able to see what’s going on and try to stop it, than to watch helplessly.”

“Yes, well,” she replied, giving me a hard, scrutinizing look. “I suppose you’re right.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes; she was finishing her salad, and I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Then she stood abruptly.

“I should be getting back,” she said, slapping a few bills on the table to cover the check. “I’ve just thought of--well, I’m probably needed.”

“Oh...kay,” I said, watching her throw her coat over her shoulders and rush out the door. “Bye.” At that point, she had already climbed into a cab and was driving off.

* * *

I’d been hoping I could sneak off and take a quick nap before we had to head out for the night, but unfortunately, upon arriving back at Fittes, I ran into Kipps.

Literally.

I stumbled backwards. “M'sorry,” I mumbled, before realizing who it was. “Oh. Kipps.”

He smirked. “Doing all right there, Lucy?”

I gave my head a little shake to wake up some. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”

“Right,” he said. “I’m sure you’re not used to the way Fittes does things. We run a tight ship here, whereas Lockwood’s more lax, I’ll bet. You’ll adjust.”

“That-- what? That’s not it. Have you even been reading the reports Kat’s written?” I said, a little affronted.

Kipps shrugged. “Eh, I’ve skimmed. You know, you’re not the only team under my supervision.”

I rolled my eyes and made to brush past him, but he grabbed my arm. “How are you settling in?” he asked, and he almost sounded earnest.

“Erm, fine, I guess,” I replied. “We’ve been pretty busy, and Kat hasn’t let me try anything new, so it’s been pretty much what I’m used to.”

“Well, that’s her prerogative,” he said. “Getting along well with your new team?”

“Why do you care?” I asked.

“I like to know what’s going on with my agents,” he shot back.

“They’re… I mean…” Kipps looked vaguely amused as I stammered, trying not to sound too put out, but also not too pleased. “You don’t have siblings, do you, Kipps?”

He looked taken aback. “I did. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just--if I had to work with one of my sisters every day, we’d never get anything done from bickering all the time. We would drive each other mad.”

“How is that any different from you and Cubbins?” he asked.

“That’s different. It’s... and Kat--”

“I’ll tell you something, Lucy,” he interrupted. “I wish I could’ve been there when my sister was attacked; I might’ve been able to save her. In my experience, you can expect your family to have your back. Always.”

“Even to the point of recklessness?” I reasoned. “Shouldn’t you want to avoid that, to minimize the risk of casualties? There’s...emotional attachment that can’t always be stopped with reason.”

“Oh, and I’m  _ sure _ you just float through jobs without getting attached to your team,” he said pointedly. “Regardless of blood. Of course not. Your team becomes your family.”

_This is your doing_. He was right, much as I hated to admit it. “Well--”

“Tell me, Lucy, because I’m just curious,” he said, folding his arms. “Are you questioning my authority, or just my judgement?” His gaze was hard.

I clenched my teeth. “Neither...sir.” Kipps looked rather smug at that, and I plowed on. “Simply answering your questions.”

“Well, thank you for your honesty,” he replied. “I’m sure I’m keeping you from something, so…” He walked off.

I definitely needed a rest. I found a deserted corner and curled up on a couch. It felt like only a few minutes later when I felt someone tap urgently on my shoulder.

“Lucy. Wake up. We’re leaving.”

Another night, another case.

* * *

For once, the case was exactly as straightforward as it seemed. A primary school had a Pale Stench in the back lot, and we took care of it within the hour, returning home with our stocks of chewing gum and lavender depleted, but all of us unharmed.

I was looking forward to a decent night’s sleep. Alice was out of town, still visiting her son for the holidays, so it was just the cat and me. I put on a movie for a bit. Cecil climbed into my lap and I scratched him under the chin. He purred, and I felt my eyelids getting heavy. I turned off the television and settled back onto the couch and let my eyes drift shut.

I have no idea how much later it was that I heard it--the crash that jolted me awake. I looked around stupidly, blindly searching through the dark. Nothing. Everything was still. Maybe I’d dreamt it?

I had a hard time falling back asleep; a clawing sense of fear gripped me, that I wasn’t alone. And my back was starting to cramp up from the awkward angle I’d been laying in. When I heard my alarm clock go off in my bedroom, I was still wide awake.

I ran in to turn it off and get dressed. Normally, the noise bothered Cecil and he would claw at my legs until I turned it off, but he wasn’t around.

And when I entered the kitchen, I saw why. There had, indeed, been a crash. The flowers Holly had sent were scattered across the floor, around broken shards of pottery. A puddle stretched across the tile floor, still slowly crawling its way toward the carpet. And in the middle of the mess lay that stupid cat.  He was having trouble breathing. Was he choking on something? I couldn’t tell.

Oh God. 

I had no idea how to take care of this. Alice must’ve kept something around, though. I frantically rifled through the kitchen drawers, searching for the veterinarian’s information. There! A business card. The address was just a few blocks away.

I scooped the cat up. He hissed weakly at me and snapped, sharp teeth grazing my knuckles. I jogged to the vet’s office. The sun wasn’t up yet; I briefly realized that it might not even be open yet. Thankfully, when I reached the building, I saw that the light was on inside.

The receptionist looked up dully as I shot through the door and leaned over the counter. “Name?” he asked.

“Er, Lucy Carlyle,” I babbled. “But this isn’t my cat, it’s my roommate’s, and I don’t have an appointment or anything, but he was on the floor and I think he’s having a seizure or-or choking or something, and--”

“Owner’s name?” he asked.

“Alice Howell,” I responded. 

He scooted his chair over to a row of filing cabinets and rifled through, pulling out a folder and glancing through it. He waved over at one of the benches, gesturing for me to sit. “Wait here.”

I sat shakily, and set Cecil down next to me. Of all the times for this stupid cat to get sick, _of_ _course_ it had to happen while Alice was out of town.

A tall woman in brightly-colored scrubs came out and knelt down in front of me. “Lucy? I’m Dr. Mendoza. Can you tell me what happened?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. I was asleep, and then I heard a crash, and then I just found him on the floor. He must’ve knocked down the vase when he collapsed or something.”

Dr. Mendoza picked Cecil up gently. “I’m going to bring him back and take a look at him. Do you need to call someone? Your parents, maybe?”

I held back a snort. “No, I don’t live with my mom, but I should call Alice. Thanks.”

Thankfully, she was understanding. “He probably ate something,” Alice chuckled over the phone. “I don’t blame you, dear, how could you have stopped it? You were asleep. I can’t thank you enough for taking care of this.”

I shrugged, before realizing she couldn’t have seen that. “No problem.”

“I’m taking the train home today,” she continued. “Do I need to come pick him up, or are you going to bring him home?”

“Oh, er…” I glanced around the room, which was empty. “I don’t know. I’ll call you back when I find more out.”

“Thanks, duck. You’re the best.” She hung up.

I trailed back over to the bench and waited, watching the news play on mute across the room. It looked like the same thing as usual; reports on the Visitor outbreaks. The reporter was attempting to interview some of the agents as they started to disperse. I found myself looking for Lockwood’s face, since he was never one to shy away from the camera, but it looked to be mostly night-watch kids that lingered.

The camera cut to a familiar figure: Inspector Montagu Barnes. He was droning on about something, his mustache twitching as his mouth moved beneath. I wanted to know what he was saying, what was going on. Moving to Fittes felt like a demotion; one moment, I was in the thick of things, cleaning up the streets of London, and now I was stuck gathering up antiques robotically and throwing them into the furnace. Honestly, I was wasting my Talent, and I knew it. But I suppose it was worth it, for safety’s sake.

I was about to stand up and turn the volume on, just a little bit, when Dr. Mendoza reappeared, worry tightening her features. She held a small plastic bag in her hands, which she held out to me when she got closer.

“Do you recognize these?” she asked. I peered at the bag’s contents; inside were three or four square-petaled flowers. They looked vaguely familiar.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “Yes, they’re, uh, part of a bouquet I was sent.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, I would recommend disposing of them,” she said. “These flowers are oleander. It’s... actually quite poisonous. I’ve no idea where your friend even found them, although I suppose they are pretty. Cecil will be fine; I had to pump his stomach, and I’ve administered medicine...”

I continued nodding along as she spoke, but my mind was elsewhere. The mystery of whoever sent that first bouquet of flowers was now more important than ever. I’d been viewing it as a gift, a bit strange perhaps, but innocuous. What if it was a threat? Oleander, mistletoe--both poisonous plants,  _ pretty _ as they may be. Was there a hidden meaning there?

Dr. Mendoza said something about “rest” and “evening”, so I inferred that I didn’t need to hang around the rest of the day. Good. I stood up, thanked her, and rushed to the phone, first to call Alice and let her know that, yes, she should come pick up her cat when she gets back, and then to call in to work. Looks like I wouldn’t be coming in late today. I wouldn’t be coming in at all.

I felt a thrill run down my spine. Time to do some digging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughghgh. Sorry this has been slow lately. I SUPER PROMISE it's going to pick up soon.


	6. Chapter 6

I headed back home to collect myself and make a plan. I was so lost in my thoughts that I pushed through the door and waded through the mess Cecil had made before I remembered there had even _been_ a mess. Right. I should to take care of that first.

I mopped up the water and swept up the broken vase and salvaged the few flowers I could. They’d been dying, anyway. I removed some of the dead flowers from the other vase to make room. I’d been hoping to salvage the card, but it was drenched and all the ink had run.

I quickly changed out of my Fittes uniform into normal clothes, then headed right back out.

And took a car to Portland Row. Firstly, I had to verify that it had indeed been Holly who’d sent the second bouquet. I’d never mentioned it during our lunches, since we had more pressing things to discuss, but now it felt pretty important.

I stepped over the iron line and rapped on the door. As I stood there waiting, I had a profound sense of deja vu; it was like I was fresh and new to London again, searching for work and stumbling upon this decrepit, utterly unremarkable building. A lot had changed in almost two years.

Just like the first time I’d knocked, George opened the door with a scowl. Only this time, he wasn’t wearing pants.

Alright, so maybe some things stayed the same.

“Gah!” I exclaimed. “George!”

His scowl dropped. “Oh, hullo, Luce.”

“Why are you answering the door in your underwear?” I asked wearily. “It’s the middle of the day! I could’ve been a client.”

George ushered me into the hallway and snapped the door shut. He lowered his voice. “Between you and me, that’s the idea.”

He slumped against the door. “Lockwood’s gone crazy. He’s not turning anyone away. If a client gets over the threshold, we’ve taken their case. And I’m so _tired ,_ Lucy. Just one night off is all I ask.”

“Well, you’ll definitely scare them off like that," I shuddered. "And everyone else, for that matter.”

He rolled his eyes. “Point taken. Now, what are you here for?”

“To see Holly, actually,” I said, stepping into the living room. “Is she here?”

“That’s a good question,” he replied. “I don’t know. I… might be the only one here.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, you’re welcome to wait,” he offered. “Or, she might be downstairs or something. I’ll go check.”

He walked past me, but I stopped him by the grubby neck of his shirt. “Go put some pants on, George. I’m perfectly capable.”

I walked down into the office space. No one was there. I noticed that, once again, there were three desks situated in the central space. The fourth one, my old desk, was pushed against the far wall and piled up with various stacks from the others’ desks. And sitting on top of one of those stacks was none other than the skull jar.

The ghost was out, staring at a tarp on George’s desk with a venomous expression. He noticed me and grinned, his teeth glinting brown through greenish-blue lips. He mouthed something, but no sound came out. I sighed and twisted open one of the valves, and his voice poured out.

_“--finally realized the error of your ways? Good. I can’t even_ begin _to tell you how awful it’s been. Just when I got used to having someone to talk to, Cubbins shut me back up and stuffed me down here. I think he’s planning some big experiment over there, but I haven’t got the hands to lift up the tarp. Do it for me, would you?”_

“Nice to see you, too, skull,” I said, planting myself firmly in between the jar and the shape on George’s desk, blocking his view.

_“I can tell. You’ve really let yourself go in the absence of my company,”_ he smirked.

“Okay. Time’s up,” I said, reaching for the valve again.

_“Wait, wait! Gosh, some people can’t take a little friendly banter. I’m not used to people being able to hear what I say, am I?”_ he pouted. _“Spend all my time locked up in this little jar, talking to myself. I don’t even have the vile Cubbins’ experiments to keep me occupied.”_

“Oh, cry me a river,” I said. “It must be so _terrible_ to spend all of your time sitting around, doing nothing.”

_“Finally, someone understands.”_

The back door opened, and I heard footsteps coming my way. I twisted the tap on the jar shut, much to the skull’s quickly-stifled chagrin. Holly rounded a pillar and came into view.

“Hi, Lucy,” she said. If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. “I thought I heard someone in here. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask you something,” I said lamely. “Did-did you send me some flowers a few weeks ago?”

“Er, did I?” she asked. “I don’t remember. I might’ve.” She walked over to her desk and rifled through a notebook. “Oh, I did. Yes. Why?”

“Just clearing something up,” I replied, shrugging. “It was probably silly of me to come all the way over here.”

“Oh. Okay.” She looked at me curiously.

I pointed back up at the stairs. “I have a lot of other stuff to do today, so… I’ll see you later.”

She nodded and waved. “Yep. See you.”

I jogged back up the stairs into the kitchen. George, mercifully now fully clothed, leaned against a cabinet, eating chips right out of the bag.

“Lockwood left a note on the Thinking Cloth,” he said chewing noisily. “I think it’s from today. Said he was making a run to Arif’s. He should be back soon if you want to stick around."

“Thanks, George. I’d love to.” And I would. “But I’m in the middle of something kind of important right now.”

He frowned. “Fittes stuff? It’s okay, I get it.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, but changed my mind and just shrugged. “Sorry.”

He tipped his head back and poured the crumbs directly into his mouth. “Want me to walk you out?” he asked, crumpling the bag into a ball.

“I think I know the way,” I smirked.

I made my way to the front door, but just when I reached to open it, the knob turned under my hand. Lockwood stood on the other side, clutching a box of doughnuts. He looked…

To put it bluntly, he looked like hell. And he was the one that could still look impeccably attractive even after our worst jobs. Now, though, dark, heavy circles ringed his eyes like bruises. His hair was greasy and greyed with dust. His coat was buttoned lopsidedly and the sweater peeking out underneath had a large ectoplasm stain.

“Oh, hey, Lucy,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Heading out? I’ll make sure George saves you a doughnut.”

“Hi, Lockwood,” I said, skirting around him. “And, er, bye.” I pulled the door closed. I was pretty sure he'd realize what happened before he even got to the end of the hallway.

* * *

My next step, I decided, was to track down the florist. They probably had records of who’d ordered the flowers. Unfortunately, that meant a trip to the library. Still, how many flower shops could there be in London?

The answer to _that_ turned out to be “way too many”. I spent a few hours at a table with phonebooks and street maps, my eyes glazing over every few minutes as I read the same address over and over. Then I’d shake myself out of it, find it on the map, write something down, and move on to the next one.

It was well past lunchtime by the time I got out of there. I bought a bag of roasted nuts from a street vendor and slowly, _oh so slowly,_ made my way through the list. Most of the shops on my list weren't even open, since it was the middle of winter, and those that were, were of no help. None of them sold oleander, and most looked unnerved when I asked.

I was about halfway down the list when it started to snow. Hard. I ducked into the shop, a seedy-looking little place, and stared out in dismay; suddenly, I couldn’t even see the street I’d come in from.

The woman behind the counter clucked her tongue. “Tough luck, that,” she said sympathetically. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, actually.” I said. I gave her my address and asked if they’d had any orders delivered there.

She shook her head. “Sorry, we don’t do delivery.”

“Oh.” I thanked her and steeled myself to head back out into the storm, when I saw a reflection of something bright orange in the window. I whirled around to locate it, and… there!

The same arrangement I’d mysteriously received weeks ago, identical except for the vase, was hidden in a corner refrigerator, behind rows of wilting poinsettias left over from Christmas. I pointed at it. “When’s the last time you sold one of those?” I asked.

The woman shrugged. “Probably a while ago. I personally think it’s more of a spring color theme, but my wife insists we keep at least one of everything all year round, just in case.” She pulled a thick blue ledger from under the counter and opened it, scanning a few pages. “Yeah, looks like it was about… a month ago?”

“Do you know who bought them?” I pressed.

She snapped her fingers. “Oh, I remember now! It was a kid. Kind of a ponce, really. He lives around the corner. I think his name’s… Leo?”

My heart stuttered for a moment. “Leopold Winkman?” I asked. “His mother runs an antique shop?”

She pointed at me triumphantly. “That’s the one! Yeah.”

I stammered out a thanks and darted out into the blizzard. I found a snow-covered bench, swept it off, and sat, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. This was _bad_. I didn’t know why, but I could feel it.

Why would Winkman send me flowers? I suppose it could’ve just been a reminder of the threat he’d made at the festival, to keep me on my toes. Then a more pressing thought occurred to me. How had he gotten my new address? I hadn’t given it to anyone outside of Holly, Lockwood, and George. Fittes probably had it in my file, too. Maybe he’d snuck in, or bribed someone to find it for him. But why go to all that trouble, when he could just lure me out on a case and catch me off guard?

I could always ask. The Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium was right there. I doubted he'd give me a straight answer, but I could try.

So I brushed off the snow that had accumulated on my shoulders, pulled my hat further down over my ears, and marched around the corner.

Snow had piled up and obscured the sign, but I didn’t need to read it to know I was in the right place. The bell greeted me cheerfully as I entered the shop, which was more than I could say about the boy at the register.

“What do you want?” Winkman sneered.

“Depends,” I said. “Why did you poison my cat?”

“I did what?”

“He ate the flowers you sent. Why did you send them? How did you get my address?” I demanded.

An oily smile slid onto his face. “Finally caught on, have you? Tell me, how have you been enjoying your new roommate?”

“Leave Alice out of this,” I snapped.

“Oh, yes, let’s talk about her, too,” he said.

I frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Tell me,” he said. “When you’re off cavorting around with ghosts, or running one of these personal crusades of yours, who’s left behind to watch that poor, sweet old woman you live with?”

“She has nothing to do with any of this-whatever this is!”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ve brought her into this, whether you realized it or not.”

What?

“You would really drag innocents into this little revenge plot of yours?” I asked.

“You put my father in jail, Miss Carlyle. I’m not inclined to feel sympathy for you.” He came over to stand in front of me and leaned into my face, his voice low and threatening. His breath smelled like sour milk. “Now, if I were you, I’d try my very best to get home before dark, because if the worst I’ve done so far is poison your cat, you’ve got a big surprise coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the last were giving me flashbacks to junior year of high school. Let my children sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

I took the tube from Bloomsbury and raced home. I hurried up the front walk and pushed through the door, chest heaving, one hand hovering at my belt to draw my rapier.

The scene that I faced was utterly unremarkable: no one else was even home yet. Everything was quiet. Winkman’s gift, if I could even call it that, sat innocently on the table. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

The sun was still up, barely, but with the stormclouds blocking the sky, I had to squint through the darkness to see. I refrained from turning the lights on, treating my own kitchen like I was on a case.

I cursed myself for not being prepared; I didn’t have any kind of supplies except my rapier. A thought occurred to me, and I grabbed the salt shaker from its cabinet. Then I crept closer, unclasped my necklace, and laid the silver chain on the table around the vase. I stood back, sword in one hand and salt in the other, and waited.

It got darker and darker, but there was no sign of any type of ghostly light emanating from the vase. In fact, quite the opposite seemed to happen; the dark seemed to coalesce within the confines of the chains, becoming thicker and shadowier.

It was well and truly dark now, and my eyes had adjusted, but there still didn’t seem to be  _ any _ kind of apparition forming. I could feel a creeping fear tugging at the back of my consciousness, but was that a Visitor, or just my own apprehension?

The ghost lamp flicked on outside and flashed its way around, illuminating the room. The vase was still enshrouded by shadows, despite the bright white light.

Oh.

Oh, I was  _ really _ stupid. I watched as the shadow slowly stretched upwards and outwards, like molasses, creeping out beyond the confines of the thin silver chain. Then, suddenly, it was past the line, and it grew rapidly, covering the entire ceiling.

I swore. It was a Dark Specter. A weak one, by the looks of it, but still incredibly dangerous. And I had a silver necklace, my rapier, and a handful of salt. And the one, two, _three_ stalks of lavender already placed in the vase.

I watched as the darkness gathered, but without the aid of the ghost lamp, it was hard to tell what was the ghost and what wasn’t. Was it splitting up and coming around to surround me? Was it waiting in the corner to attack? Was it all around, spread so thin that I was standing in it even now? I shivered.

The door creaked open behind me, and I yelled, “Get back! Hide!” I heard Alice and a very grumpy, groggy-sounding cat skirt the wall of the kitchen and scurry into a room. I waited until I heard the door click shut before I provoked the Specter.

I darted forward, yanked the flowers out, and dumped the cloudy water into the sink. It felt like something dark and monstrous was peering over my shoulder, breathing down my neck, and I knew the Specter was gathering itself to swoop down at me. And sensations from the vase assaulted me, too; I smelled hot metal and baking bread, heard the hum of bees, felt calm and contentment and underneath all of that, a red-hot streak of righteous anger. I felt someone strike me, on my nose, my jaw, my shoulder; I listened to harsh whispers from behind heavy wooden doors. There was a loud crash, as if someone had upturned a table covered with fine china. It startled me, and I dropped the vase.

The moment it left my Touch, the feelings faded, but crash still echoed through the room, only this time, it was real. The green glass shattered across the floor. I rushed for a broom, trying to coax every shard from its hiding place and gathering them into a pile on the floor, glancing up every so often at the black cloud, which was circling me, slowly, coming closer with each revolution. I dumped the entire contents of the salt shaker over the pile, and covered it with the lavender and my necklace. Then I ran into the bathroom and ripped the curtain rod from its bearings. The rings holding up the shower curtain were heavy iron, and I tipped the rod over the pile of broken glass, letting the rings slide off, not bothering to untangle them from the curtain.

Then I leaned back on my heels and sighed. A quick glance up at the ceiling showed that I hadn’t contained the ghost, but it had been subdued, at least. “Stay there. Once you hear the door close, it’ll be safe to come out,” I called out to Alice, and began hunting through the hall closet for a sufficiently dirty jacket. I found one in the back, streaked with soot and covering in a fine film of magnesium dust. I swept the glass and other debris into the dustpan, wrapped it in a few towels, and wrapped  _ that _ in the coat.

Crude, but effective. Hopefully.

Slowly, carefully, I walked to the Fittes building, taking care to stay in the light as much as possible. Dark was dangerous; dark was unknown; dark was the enemy. I knew the ghost wasn’t even close to being safely contained. It could be following me. It could be touching me.

When I reached the Strand and saw my destination, I couldn’t help it--I broke into a panicked run. The ghost lamps were resting, and I felt the darkness closing in on me, not knowing what was malevolent and what wasn’t but feeling suffocated all the same.

And then, just as I reached out to grasp the door handle, I stumbled on a slick patch of ice. I dropped the package containing the Source, arms flailing wildly at my sides to gain my balance, and then--

Blackness.

* * *

I woke up inside, but I was so very cold. My head pounded so fiercely I could practically hear the thrumming of my pulse. A night-watch girl, eight or nine at the oldest, was standing a few feet away. When she saw my eyes flutter open, she approached. I was suddenly aware that I was in the lobby, and there were a few agents crowded around the back of the couch. Outside of my field of vision, someone lifted my head up and pressed something cold and wet against my scalp.

“Are you okay?” the night-watch girl asked. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” I muttered, waving the hands away and taking hold of the cloth. I sat up and swung my legs over to stand up, but my vision blanked out for a second, fuzzy grey swarming around the edges at first, but then enveloping my whole sight. I reached my free hand out to steady myself against the coffee table. “I need to--”

“Oh my God, Lucy.” Kat sounded exasperated. She’d been the one with the compress. “Would you lie down for a second? You just hit your head really hard. You might even have a concussion. So sit still.”

I rolled my eyes, which just worsened my headache, but leaned back against the cushions. “Kat. There’s a broken vase outside. I was carrying it when I slipped. It needs to be disposed of. It’s a Source.”

She waved off all of the people crowding around. “Go take care of that,” she commanded. Then she turned back to me and huffed, “I hope this was important enough for you to miss work today.”

“It’s Winkman,” I explained. “He planted a Source in my house.”

Kat frowned. “Um, Winkman’s in jail. Did you forget? How could he have done anything?”

“No, his son,” I said. “He’s still mad at me for  _ putting _ his father in jail.”

“How did he manage to get in your house?” she pressed.

“Flowers. Or, the vase, I guess,” I replied. “I got them a couple weeks ago. It looked normal, but… oh. There was a lot of lavender nearby. That must’ve been keeping it restrained. This morning, I threw most of it away, and that gave the ghost the freedom to come out.”

“So what, you just trusted that he’d suddenly had a change of heart?” Kat asked skeptically. “That was stupid of you.”

“I didn't know who they were from!” I argued. “If I had, of course I wouldn't have kept it around.”

She scoffed; then, a pensive look came over her face. “The vase. Did it look old?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. It was pretty ordinary. Why?”

“Well, Winkman's sells antiques, right? And we've been having a problem with them lately,” she said. “I wonder… I mean, obviously the shop’s still in business, and it's naive to think that Julius was the only one involved in the relic trade...”

It dawned on me. “You think he's the one behind our recent cases?” I asked.

“Or he's part of it, at least,” she said. “Hell, he's a kid. He might be tracking down some of the relics himself. And his mother sells them, or gives them to other antique stores, and they get out into the public. It might be a conspiracy, or they might be the only ones behind it, but I seriously doubt that they're not involved at all.”

I stood up again, and this time I actually managed to remain upright. “We have to go tell Kipps,” I insisted. “Or--somebody!”

“Yeah,” she agreed, placing a stiff hand on my shoulder. “But seriously, slow down. You’re going to pass out again.”

She seemed uncharacteristically fussed, and I started towards the stairs, calling back, “Well, if I do pass out, then you can tell him.”

We reached Kipps halfway to his office; he was winding a scarf around his neck as he trotted down the stairs, clearly on his way out for the night. He stopped and listened as we told him our suspicions, then shook his head incredulously.

“You’re about two hours late on that,” he said. “But I’m impressed that you found out at all. I only learned from Ms. Fittes herself, who got a warning from one of her friends.”

“Well, what are we doing about it?” Kat demanded.

“For now? Nothing.” Kipps replied. “We’ll alert the authorities in the morning, and continue to root out any items they’ve sold, but we’ve got other stuff to worry about. I highly doubt they’re single-handedly worsening the Problem.”

“It’s a start, though,” I said.

“Oh, of course. But it’s only one problem out of who _knows_ how many,” Kat argued. “There’s nothing else we can do here, but we can start looking elsewhere.”

“In the morning,” Kipps said firmly, ushering us back down the stairs. “I’m extremely tired, and I don’t have the energy to think about this for much longer. Tomorrow, we’ll contact DEPRAC and confer with them.”

He lead us outside, headed off towards an old Cadillac, and drove away. Kat gave me an odd look. “Are you okay to get home?” she asked gruffly.

“Yes,” I said. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, then, unless you end up in the hospital, I expect you to come in to work tomorrow. Got it?”

“Yeah, I know,” I said wearily. “But you know, if I hadn’t taken today off, I never even would have found any of this out.”

She allowed me a small smile. “Nice job on that, Lucy.” Then, she straightened up. “See you.”

I started on my way home. It was cold, and dark, and my head still ached something terrible, but I was calmer than I had been on my way over. I’d caught Winkman at his own game, and he’d soon see how much trouble he’d gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh. Sorry this is so short. Next week will be better.


	8. Chapter 8

Scotland Yard was busy as ever, teeming with kids from agencies all over town. When I arrived at the DEPRAC unit, Kat and Kipps were already there, arguing with a harried-looking officer.

“We’ve got a lot going on right now, don’t we?” he was saying. “What would happen if we just let every last agent walk in here and tell us who to see, how to do our jobs?”

Kat balled her fists. “I understand that but this--”

“--Is gonna have to wait, sweetheart, just like everything else,” the officer interrupted. “So just sit over there and wait, and I’ll get a form for you to fill out, and then you can be on your merry.”

“Fine,” Kipps snapped, stomping over to one of the plastic chairs and sprawling dramatically over the armrests. “Whatever. But I’ll have you know, Penelope Fittes herself asked me to come in here, and if that doesn’t deserve Barnes’ attention, then I don’t know what does.”

“ _ Inspector _ Barnes isn’t in at the moment, as I keep telling you,” said the officer. “If it’s so important, feel free to leave and try to track down someone who cares.”

Kipps rolled his eyes. Kat sat next to him and stared stonily at the floor, pausing every so often to look up and glare daggers at the obstinate officer. I joined them and drummed my hands on my knees. “So. What’s the plan here, exactly?”

Kipps tilted his head back to look at me. “Wait for Barnes. Tell him what we know. Let him handle it from there.”

“He’ll arrest Winkman, at least, right?” Kat asked.

He grimaced. “Bring him in for questioning, probably, but there’s nothing concrete to arrest him for. He’s just a kid; no one’s gonna believe he’s a mastermind. I don’t even buy it. There’s something bigger going on here, I can feel it.”

He was probably right. Still, I was itching for some sort of closure, for this dangerous game I’d been sucked into.

After what was probably only half an hour, but felt like ten times that, Barnes walked into the lobby, trailed by a gaggle of agents in a rainbow of uniforms, who began to scatter as they headed off for various tasks. Kipps bounded over to talk to him, and Kat leaned over to me and murmured, “I thought he wasn’t in at the moment?”

“In the room, maybe.”

Kipps and Barnes began to leave through a different door, and we raced to follow. The men were talking, but nothing important yet; recent hotspots of ghost activity, iron prices, and the like. I paid them little attention as we walked, instead craning my head to take in as much of the bustle as possible. I noticed the map of London that was usually displayed had been taken down, and as we continued on I realized that the attacks had probably become too dense, as each district had its own, pin-clustered map tacked to the wall.

After they had exhausted all other topics of small talk, Barnes seemed to realize we weren’t going anywhere and got down to business. “Alright, enough chatter, Kipps. What do you need?”

Kipps explained the situation, adding a few details Kat and I hadn’t been privy to; namely, that the tip came to Ms. Fittes from Sir Rupert Gale. I couldn’t help but let slip a gasp at the name.

Barnes turned in surprise; evidently, he hadn’t been paying much attention to Kipps’ companions. “Ah,” he said. “Carlyle. You’re on Fittes’ side now, are you? Had a little lovers’ spat over at Lockwood and Co?”

“What?” I sputtered. “No, I--”

“That was rhetorical. I don’t really care.”

Beside me, Kat snickered.

“That’s pretty far-fetched,” Barnes continued. “You think a twelve-year-old kid is behind a secret relic-smuggling operation?”

“Kids are capable of plenty,” I reasoned. “Look at all the stuff that agents are able to accomplish.”

“That’s when they’re under adult supervision,” he said. “In any case, we have been keeping an eye on the place since all of that… unpleasantness with Julius Winkman, and there have been some reports of suspicious activity. I had originally decided it wasn’t our department, but I’ll have someone take a look.”

“You should send someone to bring him in as soon as possible,” said Kat. “Lucy was by yesterday; he’ll know something’s up and alert anyone else he’s involved with.”

I nodded. I’d had the same idea.

“Listen,” Barnes said. “We’ve known for a while that the Winkmans are in deep with the relic business. We’re not completely unprepared. And we have a few other leads. You’ve done your bit. We’ll take it from here.”

* * *

On the walk to work, Kat and I continued to discuss the most recent developments.

“They’re going to underestimate him,” I worried.

“They’ve got a point,” she replied. “Collecting and verifying the Sources is one thing, but distributing them is another. No adult is going to take a kid seriously enough to do business with him.”

“You’re forgetting that he still has one parent that’s not in jail,” I argued. “His mother.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

I groaned. “I wish we could just cut this off at the root. Stop the relic-men before they can do anything.”

“You might as well ask people to stop dying,” she said. “Where there’s dead people, there’s ghosts, and there’s scum scavenging for haunted objects to sell, and there’s rich prats who think it’s  _ stylish _ to waste their money in hopes that they learn how to keep from dying.”

I conceded her point. “I can’t believe that people actually think a Visitor would have something interesting or helpful to say to them, if they did ever manage to track one down,” I said, half to myself. I thought of the skull jar, and how insufferable he was most of the time.

“Well, Type Threes supposedly--”

“Ghosts don’t care about us!” I laughed, waving my arms. “They care about themselves; about wreaking havoc and finishing whatever unresolved stuff they left behind. They’re selfish and stubborn and getting them to tell you anything of the remotest importance is pretty much a herculean effort!”

Kat narrowed her eyes and studied me.

“I mean, it’s not like we’ll ever know,” I continued, immediately regretting my outburst. “Type Threes are so rare, right?”

“Right…” she replied. She opened her mouth, paused, and then spoke again. “What makes you say that, though?”

I chuckled uneasily. “It’s just what I’ve Heard. All they ever care about is their own problems. Even if they could tell us anything about what it’s like for them, I doubt they would. It’s all about getting revenge or moving on.”

“What, you’ve learned all that from just a few cases?” she asked sarcastically. "Marissa Fittes would be impressed, I'm sure."

“I’d be more certain if you’d let me try it out with some of our cases. They're all so easy!”

“Yeah? Well, tough. It’s too dangerous.”

“If you’re scared of danger, why are you even here?”

“I could ask the same thing of you!”

I faltered. “W-what?”

“What’s your deal?” she demanded. “Not two months ago, you swore up and down that you’d never work with us. And now, here you are, trying to act all chummy.”

“And? I can’t change my mind? I have to explain every decision I make?”

“How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you’re not going to just ' change your mind' and decide to leave, when we’re in the middle of a job and things are getting a little too difficult for you to handle? I’ve had my team ripped apart before, and that wasn’t Ned’s fault, but it’s hard to patch it back up again! You swore you’d always have Lockwood’s and Cubbins’ backs, and look where you are now! How do I know I can trust you to watch me and my team? You only seem to care about yourself!” Kat paused, breathing raggedly.

“You only care about yourself,” she repeated quietly. “So, no, I don’t trust you to try to _commune with the dead_ , because I don’t care if you think you know better--it never ends well.”

“That’s not fair!” I protested, but she stormed off ahead, too incensed to hear any more.

I  _ did _ care. Maybe Kat was right, maybe I’d done too sudden of an about-face turn, but, I kept telling myself, it was for the right reasons.

I hated this. Long since estranged from my family, alienated from my friends, distrusted by my co-workers, and targeted by an irate child--no matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to make anything right. Although, hopefully, that last one wouldn't be an issue anymore.

One thing at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h ha ha ah ha.... guess who lied....
> 
> Sorry, I know this chapter is even SHORTER than last week's, but I've been sick these past couple days, so I'm just turning in what I have up to the point where it stops being coherent.
> 
> I make no (verbal) promises for next week, but I've got a general expectation hanging over my own head here.


	9. Chapter 9

A few hours later, Kipps came down to tell me I’d been called back to Scotland Yard. I started to leave, and Kat began to follow, but he held up his hand. “I’ve just been on the phone with Barnes. He just asked for Lucy, not us.” Kat shot me a venomous glare, as though I had any more idea of what was going than she did and had somehow conspired to keep her out of it.

I shrugged and left, grateful to have the chance to leave. Ever since her outburst this morning, Kat seemed to have reverted to her frigid demeanor, and I was glad to get away. I buckled my rapier to my belt and left.

When I arrived at the offices, I was immediately ushered into a waiting room. It looked familiar, but then again, don’t all waiting rooms look the same? I sat down for a few minutes, kicking my heels, but time dragged on, and still no one came. I started pacing.

After about an hour, the door cracked open, bringing in a rush of warmer air from the office space. A uniformed officer wordlessly beckoned me to follow him; he, too, looked vaguely familiar. I realized I was probably spending too much time there. What happened to the days when I just worked private cases, and wrapped them up the same day I started?

He showed me into a room that was utterly unremarkable; the walls were bare, the space within containing only a table, an old, small television, and a few chairs. Already seated at the table, to my surprise, were Lockwood and George. I took the empty chair next to Lockwood. Barnes bustled in a few seconds later, and sat across from the three of us.

“We’ve got the Winkman kid,” he said without preamble. “And he’s singing like a  _ bird _ .”

“So… that’s good, right?” I asked. “Why do you need us here?”

Barnes smoothed down his mustache and regarded us silently for a moment. “Some of the things he’s telling us… well, let’s just say we’re not entirely sure if we should believe him or not.”

“What do you need  _ us _ for?” Lockwood asked. “I mean,” he added, turning to me, “not that I’m not thrilled to see you, Luce; it’s been too long. But--”

“Lockwood, she just stopped by yesterday,” George interrupted.

“What, really?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Said hi to you, and everything.”

Lockwood looked back and forth from me to George, like we were sharing in a joke against him. Barnes cleared his throat.

“If you’re finished?” Our attention snapped forward again. “Now, you know that when we brought Julius Winkman in, we also uncovered many other players in the black market. But according to the kid, it goes a lot deeper than we thought. He’s giving up a lot of information. Naturally, we’re a little suspicious.” He sighed and gave us a pained smile. “You three are our resident experts on the Winkman case. I thought maybe there might have been some things that… slipped your mind last time. So, if you would, you’re going to watch this recording from earlier, and see what you can verify.” His tone made it clear that this wasn’t optional.

Barnes leaned over and pressed a button on the TV. It came to life with a burst of static, showing a grey screen with fuzzy white lines dancing up and down across it. He pressed a tape into the slot, and the screen resolved into a black-and-white image of a room similar to this one--blank walls, one table. On one side of the table sat Leopold Winkman, his feet dangling a few inches off of the ground, his oily smirk firmly in place upon his face. Facing him sat a DEPRAC officer; her back was to the camera, so all I could make out was a uniform and a short, dark ponytail. Her hands were folded on the table.

Barnes clicked the volume up a few notches.  _ “--know why you’re here?” _ the officer was asking.

_ “No, I can’t say that I do,”  _ Winkman replied tersely.  _ “It would be nice if someone could tell me.” _

_ “We’ve received some tips that you may be carrying on your father’s illegal business schemes,” _ she said.  _ “That you have been continuing to collect and distribute relics and similar objects, and that you may have even been planting them without others’ knowledge and distributing them to the general public.” _

Winkman snorted.  _ “Can I ask--who exactly is the source of these ‘tips’? If it’s anyone from Lockwood and Co, I wouldn’t trust them. They aren’t exactly friendly towards me, and while I may have made a few, ah,  _ threats _ towards them, I mean no harm.” _

George snorted.

_ “One of the tips was from that particular agency,”  _ the officer said.

She continued to speak, but the recording was drowned out by Lockwood and George’s twin exclamations of, “Wait, what? Did you...?”

“It seems Miss Munro is quicker on the uptake than either of you,” Barnes informed them. “She was in here earlier with a few suspicions. Her argument was tenuous at best, and if it was the only tip we received, we would have dismissed it, but it turned out to be one of many that have been piling up over the last few weeks. Of course, she was the first one to give any names.”

_ “--two from Rotwell, a handful of concerned citizens, and, most notably, Ms. Fittes, which brought it all together,”  _ the officer finished, slightly out of breath from reciting what had obviously been a long list of names.

Winkman was unfazed.  _ “Ms. Fittes, really? I’m flattered that I managed to capture her attention, but one does wonder where she managed to get the information.” _

_ “She sent a few of her employees over to deliver the message, of course,”  _ the officer said.  _ “But I'm assured that it was on her orders. And she was advised by a close, personal friend.” _

_ “Oh, of course,"  _ Winkman sneered.  _ “They said that she said that they said that he said. It's gone through how many people? And you still see it as reliable?” _

_ “Leopold,”  _ the officer said, barely holding on to her patience,  _ “I'll be frank with you. Your dad's actions don't exactly imply innocence on your part. Now, I understand if you were just following your parents' orders, but you don't want to be a bad guy, right? If you're just willing to help us out, you might not even get into trouble.” _

_ “I'd appreciate it if you didn't act so condescending,” _ he objected.  _ “I'm twelve, not seven.” _

“This doesn't exactly seem to be ‘singing like a bird,’” Lockwood remarked.

“He’s getting there,” Barnes replied shortly. “If you had a bit of patience, maybe you could wait and see.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you could’ve skipped over all this early stuff,” George said. “You know, just show us the part you need our  _ help _ with? We’ve all got better things to do than waste away an entire day here.”

“What he means by that, of course, is that we’re happy to help,” Lockwood interjected hurriedly. “It’s just--”

“Will you all shut up?” I snapped. “We’re in here to listen, and I can’t hear a single thing over your bickering.”

Barnes nodded gruffly. “Yeah,” he muttered. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at him.

_ “See, this is where your case falls apart. I don’t see what you have pinning  _ me _ to any of this,”  _ Winkman was saying.  _ “In fact, I’d think the opposite. After my father gave up the names of quite a few of his colleagues, don’t you think anyone left would hate him? They wouldn’t want to work with me after that.” _

_ “I told you, Penelope Fittes received word from a close, personal friend--” _

_ “Ms. Fittes is still a regular person,”  _ Winkman argued.  _ “Just because she’s powerful doesn’t mean that her friends are any more important, than, say, Lucy Carlyle’s.”  _ He grinned wickedly, staring directly at the camera, as if he knew I’d be watching this.

_ “I see your point,” _ the officer said.  _ “But Sir Rupert also happens to be--” _

_ “Who did you say?” _ The grin slid off of Winkman’s face. For a fraction of a second, an ugly mixture of emotions flashed across his face--disgust, anger, terror?--before he struggled to display an unreadable expression.

Next to me, Lockwood simply said, “Huh.” Barnes looked at him curiously, but he just shook his head.

_ “A Fittes employee informed us that the tip originally came from Sir Rupert Gale,”  _ the officer said.  _ “Who, as I’m sure you know, is himself an important and influential man.” _

Winkman rubbed his chin; something devious seemed to sparkle behind his eyes.  _ “Oh, I know,” _ he said.  _ “My father’s had some business with him a few times.” _

The officer leaned forward, intrigued.  _ “Antiques business, or...?” _

_ “You wanted me to help you out?” _ Winkman asked. He leaned back in his chair, content now that he’d gained control of the conversation.  _ “Well, yeah, sure. We’ve still got some haunted items hidden around; you don’t think you confiscated all of them when you arrested my father? So we’ve been getting rid of them, to put it simply. Sir Rupert’s been by quite a few times, and not just during business hours.” _

_ “What do you mean? He’s involved in these illegal dealings, too?” _

“He is,” I confirmed. “Lockwood and I saw him at the auction.” Lockwood nodded.

“Well, if all he’s doing is buying, I suppose we can’t fault him for that,” Barnes said. The three of us gaped at him, and he continued. “Sure, it’s bad, but if we find the people that are selling the stuff, there’ll be no one around to buy  _ from _ .”

On the TV, Winkman continued to prattle away, listing name after name. Most of them were unfamiliar; a few, I recognized from the newspapers, but had never seen in person. Barnes kept up a running commentary.

_“Milton_ _Joseph.”_

“Relic-man. We tracked him down a few weeks ago. Not sure if he knew that, though.”

_ “Camille Foster.” _

“Nice girl. She’s about five years old. Don't really know how he knows her, since she lives on the other side of town.”

_ “Artie Fultz.” _

“We’re....not entirely sure what he does.”

_ “Dot Dickey.” _

“ _ Here’s _ where it gets interesting. Mrs. Dickey and her sister own some property along the Thames. A couple of buildings, nothing too suspicious. Said they were planning on starting a chain of businesses, but it never took off. But here’s the funny part: they’ve been approached a few times to sell, since they’ve all supposedly been sitting abandoned, but they always refuse. Could be nothing…”

“Or it could be related,” George finished. “Maybe that’s where they store everything, or where they meet now.”

Barnes nodded. “We tried to pay Mrs. Dickey a visit, but she wasn’t in. But so far, it seems to be the only halfway solid bit of information we’ve gotten from him.”

“Besides Gale,” I added.

Barnes shrugged. “Like I said, not as important. If he turns out to be farther into this than we thought, we’ll look into it, but more than likely he just wanted something expensive and spooky as some sort of impressive decor. It happens.”

The recording went on for another half an hour. Winkman listed names and places and dates and objects impassively, as though he were ticking them off of a list. The officer listened silently, as if for fear that he would clam up if she interrupted. When he was finally done talking, he kicked his feet against the chair legs.

_ “That’s all I know. Can I go now?” _

_ “I'll, uh, I’ll see,” _ the officer said. She got up and strode out of the room.

“Is he still here?” George asked.

“Planning on talking to him yourself?” Barnes asked in return.

“I feel like there’s more he’s not letting on about,” I said.

Barnes scoffed. “Did you hear him just now?” he said. “I’m fairly certain he made half of that up just to sound like he knows more than he does!”

“He’s got a point,” Lockwood said.

“I’m just saying, he’s not clueless,” I said. “George, didn’t you tell me not to underestimate him?”

“Yeah, but I think now you’re overestimating,” George replied. “He’s a kid.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s stupid--”

“--on  _ that, _ we agree--”

“--but he cares more about saving his own skin.”

“I think he’s in enough trouble already--”

“So what does he have to lose?”

“He’ll try to wriggle out of it! I just feel like there’s something he’s still hiding.”

Lockwood shook his head. “Well, until we figure out what that is, I think we’re done here?” Barnes nodded dismissively. “Great. We’ll walk you out, Lucy.”

He threw an arm around my shoulders and guided me through the halls. We stopped just outside the front doors. George stood off to the side, attempting to flag down a taxi, and Lockwood murmured, “I don’t think you’re wrong.”

I looked up at him. “I don’t know if you’re right, either,” he continued, “but I remember that Julius was a lot less willing to give everything away at the first incriminating evidence. It’s odd.”

“Or maybe George is right, and he’s just a self-serving coward,” I said wryly.

“I’m always right,” George shouted over at us.

“I wonder if it has anything to do with--” Lockwood began, but he was interrupted by George.

He had finally managed to get a car and was waiting with the door open.”Come on, Lockwood,” he said. “See you later, Luce.”

“See you, George, Lockwood,” I replied.

Lockwood grinned. “Bye, Lucy. Hopefully I’ll remember this tomorrow.”

I laughed.


	10. Chapter 10

The second Winkman arrest was by no means front-page news. The public was already tired of hearing about that case, it seemed, and the fact that it had resurfaced and been resolved again so quickly barely caused a stir. The  _ Times _ ran a short article a few weeks later, a few lines in the Police and Fire section:

**The last remnants of Julius Winkman’s underground trading ring have been uncovered. Acting on tips from agents affiliated with the Fittes agency and Lockwood & Co, DEPRAC arrested several suspicious persons last Thursday and Friday. The individuals in question currently await trial and are expected to receive the same fate as Winkman, who was incarcerated after the events of last summer.**

I think everyone involved was a bit put out that there wasn’t more written. I know Lockwood was.

I invited my old team and my new team out to lunch, to celebrate like we used to whenever we wrapped up a case.  In retrospect, not my greatest idea. The atmosphere was barely civil between Bobby, Kat, George, and Lockwood. The rest of us sat between the rivals, to diffuse the tension and keep them from arguing too much.

DEPRAC had written each of us a check for our latest collaboration, and mine was quite a bit bigger than I was expecting, especially considering we had barely done anything. I was afraid someone had accidentally added an extra zero, but regardless, I thought it would be nice to go somewhere fancy.

I wasn’t expecting Flo Bones to show up, too, but she behaved better than I would’ve given her credit for. I think she might have even taken a shower sometime in the week beforehand.

Everything was going pretty much as I had expected. Flo was shoveling food into her mouth, elbows propped up on the table and hat pushed so far back on her head that I wasn’t sure how it was staying on. Izzy and Kat were bickering loudly at one end of the table; Lockwood and Holly talked quietly at the other. The people at other tables were shooting us nasty looks.

The restaurant itself wasn’t that great; the food was expensive, but the plates were small and the portions smaller. The company--well, like I said, we were loud and not at all friendly towards each other and exhausted from months of sleep deprivation. But it was the best time I’d had in awhile.

The waiter had curled his lip at us when we first sat down, but I assured him I could pay. Flo took advantage of that by ordering a string of differently-flavored lemonades. Bobby and George, surprisingly, agreed to split one of everything off of the dessert menu. Holly just got a glass of water.

As we were leaving, the early dinner crowd began to trickle in. Oliver volunteered to go in to the crowded coat room and get them, so the rest of us waited by the doors while he fought his way through. Flo dug her hand into a bowl of mints and crammed them into her mouth. Kat fiddled with the hilt of her rapier, which she had refused to check along with her jacket.

A large group came through the doors, and a familiar-looking blonde head was revealed outside, turned towards the street. As if sensing my eyes on him, the man turned around, dropping the last of his cigarette on the ground and grinding it with his heel.

Sir Rupert Gale entered the building a moment later. He feigned surprise at seeing the lot of us and nodded disdainfully. I hoped he’d pass by just like that, but--

“Sir Rupert! Wonderful to see you, as always. How have recent events been treating you?”

\--of course Lockwood had to say something.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sir Rupert said, smiling thinly. “I’m here on business with a colleague of mine. Which reminds me, Mr. Lockwood--we have our own unfinished business to attend to.”

“Feel free to stop by our office any time,” Lockwood said. “Holly can schedule a meeting at your earliest convenience.”

At that moment, Oliver emerged, laden down with our coats. He peered around the stack and caught sight of our new companion. “Oh, h-hello, Mr. Gale. Sir, I mean.”

Flo’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re Gale? I’ve got a message for you,” she said thickly, her mouth still full of mints. A trail of saliva dribbled down her chin, and she swiped at it with a grubby sleeve. “The Graveyard Fellowship says, ‘Phase One is complete.’”

Sir Rupert froze. “I’m sorry?”

She shrugged. “Hey, I don’t know nothing, neither. You tell me.”

He made several incoherent noises, then hurriedly retreated back into the dining area.

“Does everyone know him?” Izzy asked in hushed wonder.

Bobby elbowed her in the ribs. “He’s friends with Ms. Fittes, stupid. Of course everyone knows him; he’s around all the time.”

“Don’t call my sister stupid, stupid,” Kat snapped.

Meanwhile, Lockwood, George, and I shared a look of intrigue. Phase One of what?

“Was that from a message board?” Lockwood asked Flo.

She shrugged. “I might’ve seen something somewhere.”

“Somewhere illegal, you mean,” Kat said.

“Nothing illegal about buying breakfast.”

Kat harrumphed, but didn’t deign to respond.

* * *

We had a case that night, of course. A Tom O’Shadows was seen lurking around a supermarket. The team and I were geared up and ready to go within an hour. When we arrived, the manager pointed us to an alley around back.  


“Any recent accidents?” Oliver asked the manager.

She snorted. “Isn’t it supposed to be your job to know?” She shook her head and hurried off to lock the front doors.

He repeated his question to Bobby as we walked to the back, where a large garage door was propped open a few inches by a pile of wooden pallets.

Bobby shrugged. “It’s a job with a lot of heavy lifting. There’s been a lot of accidents. I don’t think anyone’s died, though. I couldn’t find anything.”

The Visitor was already waiting for us, a figure of flickering blue light that paced back and forth along a short section of the wall. We set up a chain circle and stood inside it, appraising the ghost.

Maybe I was becoming desensitized, but it didn’t seem to be giving off any sort of emotional disturbance--no creeping fear, or malaise, or even just melancholy. I stifled a yawn, but that may have been organic.

An hour passed, but there were no new developments, aside from a growing cramp in my leg. Normally, Kat wasn’t one to be so careful, but I actually didn’t mind. Just once, I wanted to have a case with no surprises.

After we’d determined that the coast was clear, we spread out around the lot, leaving the chains in place. I trailed my hands along the wall after the ghost, Touching each of the bricks it did and Listening. Izzy stood next to me, clenching a handful of iron filings in case old Tom decided I was getting too close for comfort, but it didn’t bother me. Unfortunately, I didn’t sense anything.

The others were hauling up the garage door to get a look inside. Bobby teetered on his tiptoes, and when the door was pushed too high for him to reach, he grabbed his flashlight off his belt and shone it inside.

“I think I found something!” he called, and the rest of us rushed to his side. Oliver, the tallest by a large margin, strained to hold the door open by himself. Illuminated in the flashlight beam was a large, dark splotch on the concrete, maybe two feet across and twice as wide.

“Are you sure that’s not just an oil spill?” I asked. It was a garage, after all.

“Kinda big for that, isn’t it?” Bobby said. He crept closer and knelt at the stain’s edge. “Bit nippy over here.” He checked his thermometer. “Forty degrees.”

“We’re outside,” Izzy reminded him. “How cold is it elsewhere?”

Bobby stood up. “I’ll check.”

But just then, Oliver’s arms gave way, and he barely managed to duck inside before the garage door came crashing down. They had cleared the pallets out of the way, so the bottom of the door was flush with the floor. He scrabbled for a handle or something to grab onto, but the inside of the door was smooth; obviously, they hadn’t figured that someone would need to open it from inside, which didn’t seem very smart. Especially considering our current situation.

“I guess the Source is going to have to be in here,” Kat griped. We fanned out around the stain. I could just barely Hear something at the edge of my consciousness, but I couldn’t identify it.

Izzy leaned over and switched off Bobby’s flashlight. “Well,” she said, “this is definitely the Source. There’s a deathglow here.” She leaned over and poked the air in what I assumed to be the middle of the glow, and giggled. “It ripples when you touch it!”

“Stop messing around,” Bobby said. “You might--”

He trailed off as the ghost appeared in our midst, walking right through the door as if it wasn’t even there.

“Provoke it,” I finished for him.

I drew my rapier, and I heard the others do the same, but the ghost still just stood there. I couldn’t make out much of its features, but I heard those with Sight gag as it turned its face towards us.

“So there’s, uh, probably some grey matter in there, too,” Oliver whispered. “Along with the blood.”  


“Lots of blood,” Bobby agreed. “He must’ve gotten run over.”  


Through the dark, I heard Kat tear something off of her belt. She herded us against the back wall and said, “Get down!”  


She probably should’ve told us to avert our eyes, too, because a second later I was blinded by a flash of Greek fire. On the bright side, the door was no longer an issue.  


Kat had lobbed a flare at the middle of the Source, and the resulting explosion had blown a crater in the concrete and ripped through the garage door like paper. I smelled something burning, and realized my hair was on fire. I patted it out.  


The Visitor was gone, though, so that meant we could go home. 

No doubt the manager wouldn’t be too happy that we’d bombed her back lot.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'll probably be taking next week off, but I'll be back to the normal weekly updates after that.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not really a chapter, I guess

Listen guys, so I have spent two months trying to figure out a way to dig myself out of this hole I've dug myself, in order to get this to end the way I had originally planned, but I still can't seem to get it and at this point I've kind of lost the motivation to continue. This was supposed to be a one-shot thing to resolve stuff I was curious about, and even treating it as an au I still can't help but feel kinda silly about it in the first place.

That being said, if anyone wants to pick this up, hit up the comments, I guess. I can message you or something and give you my original ideas, or you can just take it as it is and run with it. But I won't be completing this, I don't think. Sorry. This whole thing makes me feel kind of stupid, and it went from an impulsive idea I had and turned into a trainwreck. I don't know if I'll delete this or not, but I'm probably going to mark this as complete if I do decide to keep it up.

Moral of the story: I need to plan stuff better.


End file.
